


Heatwave

by Laure001



Category: Northanger Abbey - Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms, Pride and Prejudice (1995), Pride and Prejudice (2005), Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Awkward Romance, F/M, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:02:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26598751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laure001/pseuds/Laure001
Summary: (Modern AU.) It's hot. Elizabeth keeps going to the same café to write or to relax with a cold drink. At the nearest table, there's this guy. Reading. Day after day, same table, different books.Handsome. Not particularly pleasant. Strike that, EXTREMELY unpleasant. God. Elizabeth hates him already.
Relationships: Elizabeth Bennet/Fitzwilliam Darcy, Jane Bennet/Charles Bingley
Comments: 439
Kudos: 531





	1. Heat

It’s so hot. The town is burning. Sun on concrete, metal, plastic. Cars must be ablaze, parked all day outside. Not that Elizabeth owns one. 

The square near the subway entrance: beautiful trees, an ugly modern mall. A fancy café near the theatre, all modern lines and expensive beer, and another crummy one with a few tables on the square, under the trees. The crummy café is Elizabeth’s favourite place on earth. With her new apartment, maybe. And her old apartment in the Bennet building. And the place near the park where she and Jane have fancy tea when they are in the mood for luxury. Also, Bingley's mountain house and her grandmother’s old cottage. Elizabeth has a lot of favourite places.

So. The café. Metal tables, metal chairs, basic green parasols, seriously, not a classy joint. Elizabeth ordered rosé and olives. She's all alone on what should be called the café terrace but is really just the part of the square defined the sycamores on her left, the ice cream truck behind her, and the sidewalk on her right. 

And she was wrong — she is not alone, actually. There's another customer just on her right. A man, her age, or slightly older. The tables are pretty far apart, at least five feet.

Elizabeth doesn’t move. Basking in the heat. The shadow of the parasol, a sharp shape of grey on the metal table. Waiting for her drink, it’s the best part, before the order comes. All the time in the world, waiting for something even better to happen.

A waiter approaches with a tray; he walks directly to the man and puts a glass of rosé and olives before him. 

“Nope,” the man says. “Not what I ordered.”

His tone is a little clipped, but he was reading something. Maybe he was just surprised. 

Rather handsome, too. 

“Sorry, that must be for me,” Elizabeth intervenes with a smile. “I asked Tina — did she leave already?” 

“Yep,” the waiter says, “sorry sir,” he adds, taking everything back and bringing it to Elizabeth. The handsome man throws Elizabeth an exasperated look, like she is guilty of the horrid crime of having wine brought to him by mistake, and now she’s also TALKING — aloud — to another human being, what horror will she think of next?

“Tina left at four,” the waiter explains. “Hey, you were there last summer, right?” he asks Elizabeth with a warm smile. He must be around fifty, an Italian accent somewhere.

Vague memories of soda and conversation. “Yes! Did we speak about Milan?” 

“I think so,” the waiter says. “You wanted to go, right?”

“I did.” Elizabeth is strangely conscious that the handsome man is listening. She feels flustered, no reason why, except he’s handsome and unpleasant — it’s silly, but she feels she’s being judged. “I went with my friend Charlotte. We loved our stay, but there’s so much to see. We spent an entire day in the Pinacoteca, we could not seem to leave... It is Italy’s fault, you know. Too many beauties; tourists are overwhelmed. The government should ugly everything a little.”

“I’ll tell them,” the waiter says, laughing, before making a fun little bow. “Well, back to work.” He crosses the street to re-enter the café — yes, there is a busy street between the building and the “terrace,” so each time a waiter brings an order out or a client goes inside to pay, there is a non-zero risk of someone dying in a horrible car crash. 

It doesn’t happen that often, Elizabeth supposes, or business would suffer.

She takes a sip of rosé, illogically self-conscious. Did she mention spending all day in the museum because the judgmental man was listening and she wanted to sound clever? Not that it's a lie, though. When the waiter comes back with the man’s order Elizabeth is relieved to see it is alcohol too. At least, he won’t judge her on her rosé — ok, she’s being crazy. Stop.

Laptop. Elizabeth starts working. Soon she’s immersed in her own little world of words. Sentences and paragraphs like connected bubbles. When she emerges and looks around, the man has vanished. At his place, two elderly ladies, happily chatting. The café is slowly getting fuller; the waiter crosses the street, dancing with death around moving cars, on his tray of collection of glasses, lemon slices and tall beers.

The sun won’t set anytime soon. The temperature is still hot as fuck, but you can feel the evening softening, the air getting golden. 

Summer. Elizabeth closes her laptop. She takes a new sip of rosé.

Life is pretty damn great.

**

Jane, Bingley, and Elizabeth are eating pizza on Bingley’s beautiful reclaimed-wood bar. 

“Elizabeth,” the gentleman says, “we want to send you on a date! With the most wonderful man in the world. Or should I say, we want to set up a date for you — I’m not sure what is the right terminology here —Jane, help!”

Charles Bingley is Jane’s fiancé; Jane is Elizabeth's eldest sister. A year ago, Bingley bought a huge loft with windows opening directly on the square. You can see the café and the trees. _Elizabeth’s_ trees. Yep, hers. This is Elizabeth’s neighbourhood, her childhood neighbourhood, it belongs to her, and maybe to Jane, anyone else is just borrowing it.

We had dinner with Darcy,” Jane explains. “Do you remember, Lizzy — we talked about him. Bingley’s childhood friend?”

“The one who sold everything and got filthy rich?”

Bingley eats more pizza. “He was filthy rich even before.” 

Darcy is supposed to be a paragon among men, Elizabeth remembers. Smart, generous, good looking. He inherited — a business, from his father? Who died young? Anyway, Darcy shouldered the burden when he was not even twenty-two, he managed the business, or businesses, for years, and then his younger sister left — for Italy, maybe? Elizabeth’s memories are fuzzy. Anyway, Darcy suddenly and recently sold “Pemberley”, that was the name of the firm. Now he swims every morning in a diamond pool of gold doubloons.

“He is great,” Jane explains. “I was intimidated at first, and Charles had ordered takeaway — I thought, Darcy’s an important man, maybe he will be offended…”

“He’s not like that,” Bingley protests. “And he’s not an important man, he’s my friend. My grumpy unsufferable friend.”

“He was perfectly polite and pleasant,” Jane comments. "Maybe a little diffident. But then we talked about his sister and music and art and we had a great time…”

Elizabeth laughs. “Nope, no, sorry, too much conflicting information. A week ago, you told me Darcy was charming and glamorous and had ALL THE QUALITIES. Now, he’s grumpy and insufferable, but...great anyway? Somehow?”

Bingley smirks. “What can I say? It’s all true.”

“I would not call him ‘charming’” Jane replies prudently. “He's too reserved.”

“But you want me to go on a date with him.”

“I do.” Jane smiles. Her soft, sweet smile, the one Elizabeth mostly cannot resist. “Do not listen to Charles. Seriously, Darcy is interesting, and — I don’t know, thoughtful? I liked him a lot. I think you would appreciate him too.”

Elizabeth drinks some water. Going on a date with a millionaire. Grumpy, unsufferable, shy, but still perfect. “I…don’t know,” she muses. 

I mean, why not. Elizabeth enjoys meeting new people, and this guy at least sounds interesting. High maintenance, certainly, but she likes sketching characters. Although... Truth is, laziness wins. Elizabeth is just not feeling it and she doesn’t want to force herself to try. Also, Darcy is Charles’ best friend. Elizabeth is already unmotivated, the date will most likely be a bust, and then what? Elizabeth will meet Darcy all the time in Bingley’s vicinity. Recipe for awkwardness. Because Charles Bingley is here to stay. He and Jane will get married soon, they did not set a date, but they are so in love it hurts.

(Strange thought. “They are so in love it hurts.” Why should it hurt? Elizabeth is so happy for her sister. She has always been afraid Jane would meet an asshole who hurt her. But she didn’t, she met Bingley, who’s even kinder than Jane somehow — sometimes destiny works exactly right.)

“Listen, Janey, it is it ok if I pass? I’m just, I don’t know… Not in a dating mood right now. My life is pretty perfect. I'm holding my breath, I don't want anything to change, ever. No throwing rocks at the surface of the lake.”

“Sure, of course,” Jane says, at the exact moment where Bingley exclaims,

“Aw, no! We already told Darcy, and he agreed. To the date, I mean.”

Jane intervenes again, with the diplomatic tone she uses when Bingley is over-enthusiastic. “Not — exactly. I was talking to Darcy about you, Lizzy, saying how crazy it was you two hadn’t met yet, and how great you were, and Bingley talked about setting this date, and…”

“And Darcy agreed!”

“He smiled, Charles. Politely. Then he changed the conversation and complimented the falafels.”

God, Elizabeth thinks. Poor guy. A least they agree on not wanting to date each other; that’s a start.

**

It gets even hotter.

Elizabeth loves it. All your muscles go soft. Tension evaporates. The world slows down. Events and people float in the summer haze. Elizabeth knows she’d be less enthusiastic if she had to take the overheated subway and go every day in a stifling office, but now she can work from home, or from anywhere else, really.

The café. The tables are white-hot. The sycamores are so horrified they refuse to move a leaf. The concrete would melt if it was allowed to. Elizabeth orders sparkling water. A lot of work ahead; she doesn’t need her laptop; for now, a notebook and a pen will suffice.

Organizing notes. Structuring future documents. Again, a bubble of focus inside the heavy, peaceful warmth. 

“No. This is not what I ordered.”

The handsome, judgmental, exasperated guy. With his judgemental, exasperated voice.

Same table than yesterday. Elizabeth too. They got the best tables, far from the street, close to the trees. A public fountain nearby, the parasols just at the right angle.

“Oh, sorry, sir,” the waiter says. He smiles at Elizabeth. “Iced coffee. Is it yours?”

Right. She ordered it after she finished her water half an hour ago. Tina must have left again. 

“Yes, it’s mine,” she says, smiling; she chats with the waiter for two minutes maybe. She FEELS the handsome, judgmental, exasperated man’s annoyance. Palpable waves of disapproval surging towards her. Elizabeth gives the man a quick glance; he puts his book down (Moby Dick) with a longsuffering expression. A “how dare you keep sending me things to drink and converse in an establishment where people habitually ask for things to drink before conversing” expression.

The waiter leaves. Elizabeth turns to the handsome, judgmental, exasperated man and gives him her brightest smile. Her winning smile. Her Elizabeth Bennet’s “I am so pleasant and funny and charming” smile. Her “I am going to shame you into politeness” smile, her “I am going to be so delightful you will regret having been unpleasant till the day you die” smile.

“I am sorry,” she says. “You hate being interrupted while you are reading.”

“Yes." His voice, so cold. "And you just did it again.” 

THIS IS THE MOST OBNOXIOUS MAN ALIVE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some infos about this fic in the comments!


	2. Fairytale

The heat gets worse.

Perfect.

In the evenings, Elizabeth lounges on the perfect small terrace of her perfect tiny apartment. Obscurity falls. The town lights up.

Neighbours are outside on their balconies, talking and laughing. Their voices swim up in the thick hot air. Because of the weather, children are allowed to play outside, even late; they know it’s a treat, special. You can hear them in their voice, the excitement, the glee.

**

The next day, Elizabeth meets Charlotte at the café. No obnoxious man in sight. Actually, he arrives five minutes later and sits in his habitual spot, but Elizabeth is so immersed in her conversation she doesn’t notice him. Because… Charlotte is back! Charlotte! 

“I am so happy you’re here, so happy you’re here to stay,” Elizabeth says at least five times, holding Charlotte’s hand. Charlotte is moved; she hides it behind snark and Charlotteisms, but Elizabeth knows. “I missed you so much,” she continues. “Whatsapp is great, but it’s not the same! I need your cynicism and amorality in my life. So I can bring you back to the side of good, of course.”

“Well, thank you,” Charlotte says, sarcasm obvious. “What a great opinion you have of me.”

“I do have a great opinion of you. Amorality and cynicism are good qualities to have, in small dose. Like red pepper sauce on…pasta. Pasta being life in this metaphor, I suppose. Or an ethical existence.” 

“I am going to ignore your crazy metaphoring,” Charlotte counters. “Oh God, I’m speaking like you now. And I’m not going to pretend I missed your humour because you were even worse in writing.”

“True, if by ‘worse’ you mean impeccably elegant and hilariously funny,” is Elizabeth’s answer. And ok, maybe that is the moment she becomes vaguely conscious of a presence at the next table — the impression is fleeting though, it doesn’t really reach the executive parts of her brain. 

Then she assails Charlotte with questions, she wants to know everything about her return — see, Charlotte left a few years ago for a great professional opportunity. The job was awesome, what was less awesome in Elizabeth’s opinion is that to get it Charlotte slept with William Collins, her boss and the owner of Collins&Collins — fortunately, that part of her life is over. Charlotte negotiated her three years as an executive assistant into an even better job, back in town, back here. She broke up with Collins the minute she got the offer, she’s super well paid, she’s buying her own place, Elizabeth is overjoyed.

“We have to celebrate. With champagne. Can you come tonight? In my new apartment?” she asks. “I want to introduce you to my terrace.” 

“I thought this café was the best place on Earth.”

“On hot days. On warm evenings, my terrace wins.”

“Very well,” Charlotte says, she stands up, “sorry, some of us have real jobs,” is her parting comment after an affectionate hug, when she's gone, Elizabeth sits back down. And realizes The Most Obnoxious Man Alive had been there for the entire time. His eyes meet Elizabeth's for the briefest moment, a nanosecond really, and Elizabeth thinks she reads in them a glimmer of — amusement? 

Nope. Can’t be true. The Most Obnoxious Man Alive cannot be amused by puny human beings’ conversations. The Most Obnoxious Man Alive despises puny human beings and want them all dead so he can have the planet to himself to sit alone in all the cafés in the world without anyone making noisy human activity so he can read the depressing classics in peace till he grows old and die alone with a last satisfied and solitary malevolent cackle. 

“Your café crème, sir.”

A pause. “This…is not what I ordered.”

Elizabeth tries to stifle her laugh — too late. Third wrong order in three days. She doesn’t look at the Most Obnoxious Man Alive. If she even glances at him she’s not going to be able to hide her hilarity. “This is mine,” she says, with a grin much too broad for the circumstances, don’t look, don’t look at _him_ , don’t look — she does — of course — a quick glance — he doesn’t spot her, he’s looking right ahead, Moby Dick almost finished in his hand, he might be laughing too — silently — the waiter puts the café crème before her.

Ok. Elizabeth decides that starting now, she’s going to ignore distractions and immerse herself into work. A thousand years later The Most Obnoxious Man Alive still hasn’t got his order. He protests, the waiter brings him his drink at last. Seriously, Moby Dick guy must have waited at least half an hour for his iced tea. He seems silently incensed; Elizabeth silently shadenfreudes, with a trace of guilt because let’s be honest, he’s right to be angry, service is objectively terrible.

She leaves a huge tip to the waiter, just to encourage bad behaviour.

Dear reader, some context about the café. It’s a small, cheap place. The owner must be past seventy, Hamid is his name, a frail, gentle man, very sharp. He stays inside all day behind the counter; rumour is he hires friends and family only, like Tina or the Italian guy, and yes, they’re not the brightest bulbs in the box. One day, in winter, Elizabeth drinking an expresso at the counter got to talking with a regular, who explained that Hamid (the owner) staid single all his life, and collected lost souls. 

But. Lost souls or not, why on earth are customers still coming to this place if waiting for half an hour to get the wrong order is the law of the land? Answer: location, location, location. Despite the ugly mall and the subway, this is a very pleasant square, with the theatre, a cinema, the sycamores. The 19e century town hall, a merry-go-round, dozens of kids crammed in a tiny play zone with bored parents desperate for coffee, the ice cream vendor, and some guy, playing the saxophone every day. 

It's homey, old fashioned, reassuring. A perfect place to stop and think and float, watching the sun play in the leaves, and there are only two cafés. The theatre café is great, sure, with the fancy beer and the organic shakes, but it’s on the other side of the square. It does not have THE TREES.

Hamid’s café has THE TREES.

He wins.

**

“Too bad you missed Elizabeth again,” Bingley says, serving Darcy a second, generous part of lasagnes. Homemade this time, Bingley is a great cook when he comes around to it.

“I am sorry,” Darcy says politely. “Your lasagnes are incredible, though.”

Jane fake protests. “Are you saying pasta is more important than the presence of my beautiful, smart sister?”

“Only Bingley’s homemade lasagnes. I wouldn’t do your sister the insult otherwise.”

“Oh — talking of — about the date,” Bingley adds, sitting down after bringing more parmesan. “Sorry, Elizabeth didn’t want to.”

“No, no,” Jane cries, horrified, “that is not what Lizzy said! That’s not what she said at all! She is just, hum, very busy at the moment and…”

“Actually, it is refreshing,” Darcy says with a smile, “a woman who doesn’t want to date me.”

Jane seems incredibly relieved. “Oh. Ok, good,” she says. “Are you sure? Please, tell me you are not secretly offended. Please. I don’t want you hating her.”

“I swear, Jane. I was not a fan of the idea in the first place. I just want some peace and quiet at the moment.” 

Jane Bennet smiles one of those affectionate smiles that lit her face in a flash, and Darcy gets a little pang, not that he has a crush on his friend’s fiancée, it’s just — Georgiana has the same expression sometimes. He misses his sister so much. Yes, they had this epic fight, but still, he misses her. She’s busy making friends and studying musicology in Italy; she seems so happy, smiling and surrounded by people her age. It’s time for her to be free — of his influence — but she was the only one who loved Darcy entirely and selflessly. Like Jane loves Bingley. Like Jane loves that sister of hers — Jane is laying it pretty thick, with the compliments, you’d think Elizabeth was a superstar, but even if Darcy doesn’t believe even half of it, he is actually pretty touched. When he talks about Georgiana, he lays it pretty thick too. 

“Does Elizabeth look like you?” he asks without thinking — he pictures that smile on another woman, a single, available one would be better.

“I think she does — only she’s smaller, and a brunette.”

Darcy tries to picture it, but he can’t, he just sees Jane with dark hair. It makes for a striking beauty, but Jane is too calm for him, too reserved; he likes a more open character. 

“I have plenty of pictures…” Jane muses, she opens her phone, then closes it back instantly. “Aw, now I feel like — maybe Lizzy would not like it. You know, knowing that I show her around, like…” Jane blushes. “I don’t know.”

“It’s better that I don’t see her,” Darcy says kindly. “So I don’t have any regrets. What if I fall for her at first glance? I mean, she doesn’t want me,” he adds, his tone amused enough that Jane feels only a little bad. Fortunately, Bingley intervenes,

“Isn’t there a fairy-tale about this? The prince receives a miniature of the princess — a painting — and he falls in love with her instantly, but then she turns into a doe, and he goes hunting and shoots her…” 

“Oh my God, Charles,” Jane protests. “It’s horrible.”

Darcy nods. “Perrault. All his tales are horrible if you look closely.”

**

The next day, in the café, Annoying Girl’s table is empty.

Darcy wonders how her evening went. With her friend, on the terrace.

God, he’s lonely.


	3. Duels

The café. Thursday at six. Elizabeth finishes a job. She sends the file and gets an almost instantaneous “Congratulations! Well done!” mail from Henry. She is so happy she waves at Tina and orders a glass of champagne.

Of course, the glass is delivered a good fifteen minutes later, by the other waiter, to The Most Obnoxious Man in the World. Elizabeth also calls him Moby Dick Guy; it's shorter, and she thinks it fits, for obvious reasons.

“Is this for you?” the waiter asks, _after_ putting the elegant flute on the man’s table.

Moby Dick Guy looks at the champagne. He looks at the waiter. He looks at Elizabeth. 

He smiles.

“Yes, absolutely, it is.” 

The waiter leaves. Moby Dick guy raises his glass in Elizabeth’s direction, then smirks and drinks it all.

**

Days pass. 

**

They are getting used to each other’s presence. The Most Obnoxious Man in the World comes to the café every day around four; Elizabeth’s schedule is more chaotic. He is always reading, Elizabeth notices, and doing a thorough job of it. Moby Dick is soon over. Then some Steinbeck, then “Les Fleurs du Mal,” then Alexandre Dumas — that should keep him busy for a while. He starts “The Three Musketeers”; his reading speed slows a bit. That’s because the beginning is boring, Elizabeth thinks. The first half of “The Three Musketeers” is much too long, dear Alexandre is still young, he isn’t a great writer yet. But the second half — oh yes, if you ever get to the second half you won’t be able to stop ever; you will read all Dumas ever wrote and be gobsmacked by the darkness of it all. Because if you think The Three Musketeers is just clever sexy corseted ladies and glamorous dueling musketeers, and not rape and murder and alcoholism and depression and coming of age by letting your best friends’ wife whom you slept with being slaughtered in the woods while she’s begging for your help, but your other friends are like, meh, she kind of deserves it — well, think again. 

But of course, Elizabeth cannot tell him this. (Him: The Most Obnoxious Man in the World.) Because it would mean (one) talking to him, (two) admitting that she is, hum, spying on him. Spying is such an unpleasant word though! She’s just keeping an eye on his books. Literature, anybody else would be interested, right? Normal curiosity. Cultural interest, really.

Elizabeth feels he is spying too. Listening to her phone calls. Not that there are many of them. Henry calls once. Elizabeth and Henry’s communications are mostly about work, he is one of her main clients, but they’re also friends, and on Saturday afternoon Henry calls just because he’s bored. They talk about movies, then books, and Elizabeth… mentions Dumas. Without thinking.

Instantly, she feels Moby Dick guy tense next to her. Fuck fuckity fuck. Rookie mistake. Of course, Dumas is on her mind because she spied. Because she looked at his book. And now he knows. No way he will believe it’s a coincidence; of course he will think it’s all about him. 

Elizabeth turns scarlet, but she’s Elizabeth Bennet, mistress of composure. Her voice doesn’t falter, she continues to talk to Henry as if nothing of note happened; she quickly kicks Dumas down and drowns him into a bucket of other writers’ names, mostly obscure, intellectual ones, you know, to show off.

**

Charlotte is busy, but she joins Elizabeth on Sunday afternoon. It’s particularly hot. Hot like, people step in the public fountain and throw water on happy shrieking children. Hot like, dozens of people waiting in line at the ice-cream vendor. Hot like, the saxophone guy finally decided to call it quits, he is sitting on a public bench with his instrument resting on his knees, fanning himself with his hat and drinking iced tea. Three teenagers are dueling — like in Dumas — with open bottles. Liquid land on Charlotte’s shoes while she’s crossing the square. She withers the culprits with her stare, they scuttle away, terrified. 

The water evaporates instantly on the burning concrete.

Despite the heat, Charlotte is dressed conservatively as always. Elizabeth wears sandals, jeans, and a green tank top. The jean is a mistake, too thick. The Most Obnoxious Man in the World is perfectly attired, dark trousers, pristine white tee-shirt. Hair, flawless. Not a drop of sweat on his perfectly trimmed, stupid handsome face. 

He finished "The Three Musketeers" and instantly started on the sequel — of course, he did. When the series is over, he’ll most certainly try “The Count of Monte Cristo” to get his Dumas' fix, and HA. 

(HA, cause, you thought "The Three Musketeers" was dark? Just you wait.)

Elizabeth could warn him. But no. The Most Obnoxious Man in the World deserves it. He deserves it all.

Charlotte is unwell. Tired. Problems with her apartment, with the move. The new job is difficult. The manager she replaced has been fired, the team was loyal to him, and they are giving Charlotte a hard time. She shows no weakness, but Elizabeth knows how to interpret the tiny catch in her voice. So she lists all Charlotte’s qualities aloud, she gushes about her amazing progress. Elizabeth remembers when Charlotte was sixteen, her downstairs neighbor and her best friend. Charlotte’s parents, too many children, not enough money. In high school, Charlotte had to work to be able to afford — well anything really — and after graduation, she worked even harder to get herself in a (relatively cheap) private business school. It was not a good one, Charlotte could see herself going nowhere fast and that’s why she jumped on the Collins opportunity — and look at her now, her great job, great salary, in the greatest town in the world (Elizabeth’s biased opinion.) 

Of course, Elizabeth doesn’t say all of this aloud in the café, it’s much too private, but she tells her friend how awesome she is, how proud of her she is, and — suddenly — Elizabeth catches his stare. The Most Obnoxious Man in the World’s stare. 

He was listening — and looking at her — ok, maybe not. When you’re reading, you know, you stumble on an interesting or poetic passage; you stop for a second to think; your eyes wander. That’s what happened here, certainly. Anyway, their eyes lock for the slightest moment, Elizabeth tenses, he does too.

He goes swiftly back to his book.

Elizabeth could swear he blushed. 

Charlotte changes topics and somehow the conversation lands on bras. You read well. Bras. “When it’s very hot, if you don’t have to go to work, do you wear one?” is the debate of the day. Elizabeth lowers her voice instantly; she knows they’re being listened to, or fears they might be. But Charlotte is not aware of the looming danger, so she says to Elizabeth, not really whispering,

“I mean, you’re not wearing one now, right?”

Elizabeth turns a thousand shades of crimson. Charlotte gets the hint, she glances around, realizes they are surrounded by crowded tables, gives Elizabeth an apologetic smile, and starts a very serious, very political comment about the composition of Parliament. 

(If you need to know, Elizabeth was wearing a bra, but it was so stifling she discreetly got rid of it an hour ago in the café’s bathroom.)

Once Charlotte’s gone, Elizabeth has the crazy impression that The Most Obnoxious Man in the World is NOT looking at her. Very much NOT looking. Purposefully, heroically, gentlemanly keeping his eyes down. 

Even when the waiter brings him Elizabeth’s order again, before apologizing and transferring the drink to her table. Even when Elizabeth starts writing, her hands busy on the keyboard, very conscious of her breasts now, for Christ’s sake. 

Even when Elizabeth leaves and crosses the street to pay Hamid, then realizes she forgot her purse and has to come back, feeling like everything is… wiggling more than it should. 

It’s not, dear reader, but. Paranoia. 

The Most Obnoxious Man in the World doesn’t raise his eyes in her direction once.

**

Is he listening to Elizabeth’s interactions with the waiters? Elizabeth believes so. But maybe it’s her own obsession talking. 

There’s a new waitress, a middle-aged woman named Debora. Debora seems lost and keeps forgetting orders. Something is up with her; her eyes are vacant, her hands slightly trembling. Elizabeth is very kind, even when Debora repeatedly makes mistakes.

Truth is, Elizabeth is ashamed of past behavior. She had been a little harsh to Tina last year, before she had the conversation about “lost souls”. And now Elizabeth is wondering. Would she be harsh again — sarcastic — with Debora now, if she didn’t know about Hamid’s unconventional hiring decisions? Would she notice the lost stare and the trembling hands? Maybe not, and sure, patrons are not supposed to take their waiters’ mental health into consideration, but… Jane would have noticed. Jane would never have let her exasperation show. 

Even when service is bad, Jane never shifts to icy quipping mode. Jane just asks kindly if something is wrong. 

Elizabeth wants to be like her sister. To be kind not because there is an official reason to, but — just because. It’s hard. Elizabeth has a temper. 

**

The next day, Debora’s hands are shaking so hard she lets the tray fall and pours burning café crème on The Most Obnoxious Man in the World’s pristine white tee-shirt. 

He stands up and swears. Loudly. Not so much at Debora than at the whole situation, to be fair. Debora bursts into tears. Elizabeth jumps up, she tries to help, she gives a glass of water to Moby Dick guy, to pour on the burn; she finds paper towels and hands them to him; she begins to comfort Debora, touching her shoulder and talking to her soothingly, like when she was consoling Lydia, her youngest sister, when she was little.

“Please, sir — don’t tell Hamid — please,” Debora sobs; she seems desperate — and not in her right mind. Elizabeth doesn’t see Hamid firing anybody ever, but who knows.

The Most Obnoxious Man in the World’s expression is so cold, his face a mask of stone. His white tee-shirt is completely soaked now. He turns to Debora; Elizabeth fears the worse.

A beat.

“It’s ok,” he says, finally. His tone is chilly. A swift glance to Elizabeth. He turns to Debora again. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m not going to complain.”

Debora hesitates, then leaves, or runs away. The Most Obnoxious Man in the World stays stunned for a few seconds, he almost takes his tee-shirt off right there — in the middle of the terrace — to be fair it's still early and the place is mostly deserted. He catches himself just in time and lets his hand fall, clearly feeling horribly awkward. Elizabeth pretends she did not notice any of it, she steps back to her table; The Most Obnoxious Man in the World turns to her and… 

…does not say anything.

Elizabeth stays petrified. It’s clear that he was on the verge of talking — to her. His eyes are soft, but — maybe he cannot express what he wants to, or he changes his mind at the last moment, because in the end he just looks at Elizabeth wordlessly. Then he tries again; Elizabeth is very still, but again, he changes his mind, or doesn’t find the right words.

Elizabeth smiles, she nods politely. He turns away. She sits back down; she opens her computer, her cheeks burning.

Much later. She goes to pay her bill. Hamid tells her it’s all been taken care of.


	4. Fairy Godmothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little longer but it is an exception, I will try to keep them short. :)

Saturday. Coffee, deck chairs, heat on Netherfield’s balcony. It’s hardly eleven, and the sun is already blazing. 

“Is Elizabeth really that wonderful?” Darcy asks Bingley. (They are alone. Jane: at the Bennet family brunch.) “Tell the truth. Angels singing when she smiles, flowers and diamonds appearing on her steps?” 

“Yes!” Bingley confirms with enthusiasm. “Seriously, Elizabeth is great. And she liked me at once, which proves discerning taste.”

“Indisputably.”

“The only thing Jane exaggerates is her sister’s beauty,” Bingley lazily continues. “If Jane is a ten, Elizabeth is a…seven, maybe.” 

Darcy stifles a yawn. “Seven is good enough.” 

Mid-morning light on this face. Summer. Summer is pretty great. Summer in Pemberley was just another season of hard work, except with stifling conference rooms. (Air conditioning is bad for the planet, and the business was eco-friendly.)

When Darcy was a kid, summer was special. He and Georgiana would go to Matlock, spend July and August in the park, with Richard, their cousin. Running, climbing trees, hiding in the bushes. Inventing complicated stories and roleplaying them in the woods. Time stretched, every moment an eternity, every day an entire existence. 

The magic vanished brutally somewhere around Darcy’s thirteenth birthday. As it vanishes, he supposes, for every other child in the world.

But this – on the terrace – with Bingley. The sun, the morning. This is special. 

Darcy smiles. “If Jane was any other woman, I would mock you pitilessly for thinking your fiancée was a ten. But…”

“Yep,” Bingley says, mirroring the smile. “Actually, Jane is a twelve. Or a twenty. Or a thousand. How come I got to snatch the most beautiful woman in the world, while you were around?”

“Because I was actually not around. So I could not do any snatching.”

“Nah, I would have won anyway. Jane would never have liked you. I mean, of course, she does, but not that way.”

Darcy drinks his coffee with philosophical amusement. Bingley is right, Jane Bennet would never have chosen him. Jane loves Charles for his enthusiasm, his goodness, his optimism bordering on naiveté. A miracle really; Darcy knows people who despise his friend for the exact same reasons. Cynical bastards, thinking goodness is weakness. Trying to take advantage of him, of his money. When Bingley announced he was engaged and Darcy had not even met the woman, he was wary at first; he had been busy, he had not kept an eye on things. Charles had walked into a trap, Darcy thought at the time, and Darcy had not been here to protect him.

But no. In Darcy’s absence, lighting stroke. Fairy Godmothers intervened. Jane was perfect. What cold souls could see as Bingley’s liabilities she saw as the best humans could offer.

Darcy can never be that naïve – this ship has sailed. But… This is why he wonders about Elizabeth, in some abstract, distant way. If Elizabeth values goodness as much as her sister but comes in a more vivacious, funny package, she does seem the ideal woman indeed. Not that Darcy wants to do anything about it. He doesn’t even want to meet her. After all the build-up, reality can only be disappointing. 

It is better to nurture a fantasy, to tell himself that Elizabeths are out there – perfect women for Darcy do exist, he will meet one, one day. 

The sun gets even brighter. Bingley makes more coffee, they try to put ice in it, result, awful. Netherfield balcony opens on the square below; children playing, the merry go round turning. The sycamores. The café. The waiter braving death, crossing the street with a dozen espressos on his tray. Darcy lazily tries to see if _she_ ’s there, for breakfast maybe. Must be quite pleasant, a café-croissant under the trees. Among human activity, but safe in your own private realm. 

Bingley takes a sip. “You know, I am kind of worried about you, Darcy. You seem so isolated. And melancholic. I mean, what do you do all day?”

“I read.”

“Not that I don’t love you hanging out with me all the time – you are always welcome – more than welcome – I mean, you could even move in with us in Netherfield…”

“I like how your loft has a name now. Isn’t ‘Netherfield’ the name of the building?”

“This apartment is so amazing, it deserves is own title. But, Darcy,” Bingley continues, looking serious. “You really should. Come live with us, I mean. You’re so alone, and this place is huge, and being in a hotel room all the time must be depressing...”

Honestly, it is. The hotel is comfortable but too modern, the windows open on a wall. That’s why Darcy is always outside, under the sun, in the open space of the square. 

Reading. Breathing. Not…thinking.

“This is a very generous offer, but – I have to refuse it. I actually like being alone, you know. Also, being isolated is kind of the whole point.”

After the crucial discussion Darcy had with Georgiana, which led to his sister leaving and his decision to sell Pemberley, Darcy decided to “find himself.” First logical step: cut ties with all the people he was forced to talk to in his previous life as Pemberley’s owner. Which meant cutting ties with all his professional connexions, which meant cutting ties with…everyone. Georgiana was right, he had no friends. Or more exactly, he had two, Bingley and Richard, and those were his friends _before_ he inherited his father's business. 

Once the decision was taken, Darcy had longed to move _away_. Not faraway but _away_ , so finally he just took an Uber across town and settled near Bingley. Because, why not. If you have to go on a quest of self-discovery, why not do it near your best friend and his kind-hearted, hospitable fiancée?

Hey, maybe Jane counts as a friend now too. 

Below, on the square, the café’s waiter crosses the street again. Annoying Girl doesn’t seem to be there. It’s difficult to be sure, from the fifth-floor people look like Lego characters, but Annoying Girl’s table is empty. Darcy thinks he would recognize her even from afar. She wears green, black or white. Her hair curls and bounces. (The way she walks. The way she leans toward her computer. The sound of her laugh.)

“Well, I don’t care, you have to meet people, Darcy,” Bingley said, while Darcy’s attention wavers. “I know, Jane and I, we put the bar pretty high, but come on. There must be someone you want to talk to.” 

Aw. The unshakable extrovert’s conviction that inane conversations with tedious strangers are the answer to everything.

“Also, women. Darcy, you like women, remember? Or did that change too?”

“I do like women. But my standards are pretty exacting.”

Bingley laughs. “Good to know the asshole is still strong in you. Come on. There’s not at least one woman you’d like to know better?”

**

There is.

**

Sunday is when Darcy realizes he is a highly competent man, except when it comes to talking to the opposite sex. 

Romantic inexperience is not the issue. Darcy is twenty-nine; he had one serious relationship and two very pleasant, non-serious ones. But he did not seek his partners out. The women came to him, he magnanimously decided to accept them. People hit on him all the time, that’s what happens when you are handsome, rich and single. Darcy found a thousand ways to say ‘no’, or to show indifference. 

But. Actually seducing someone. Taking the first step. Talking to a stranger, without the excuse of work, without an official reason to interact, is downright horrifying.

That was before though. Before the discussion with Georgiana, before selling Pemberley, before Darcy deciding that he would become a new man. Talking to a girl. Being charming. Charming _her_. He can do that, right? 

(Of course he can.)

Annoying Girl is on the phone with a friend, not the ironical brunette (Charlotte?), someone else. Annoying Girl laughs, her eyes shine. She returns to work.

Darcy tries to find a suitable reason to address her. Doesn’t find any.

Debora comes to take her order. Annoying Girl chats with her, she smiles. That smile.

And suddenly talking to her becomes the most important thing in Darcy’s world. 

Of course, pressure makes everything worse.

**

Since the day Debora spilled café crème on The Most Obnoxious Man in The World, Elizabeth has been horribly self-conscious. 

The way he looked at her after. The way he almost talked to her.

She’s feeling _his_ presence constantly. Knowing exactly where he is at all times – arriving a little late, sitting down, opening a book. Drinking tea. Walking over the square to give Saxophone Guy some loose change, to stretch his legs, maybe. Crossing the street to go pay the bill.

Reading. Not reading. Pretending to read. 

The Most Obnoxious Man in The World is stuck somewhere in “Twenty Years Later,” The Three Musketeers sequel. He doesn’t seem to make a lot of progress. The book is gripping though, Elizabeth knows. She remembers being immersed in the story, thinking, oh my God, King Charles I of England is going to be decapitated, how on earth Athos and Aramis are going to save him? 

Then, remembering history. And realizing – oh. Right.

The Most Obnoxious Man in the World is not feverishly turning the pages though. He’s stalling. So… 

Something’s up. 

Elizabeth begins to suspect what’s up is he is trying to talk to her.

**

On Tuesday, The Most Obnoxious Man in The World arrives late, then pauses. It’s the slightest moment, a nanosecond really, but Elizabeth would swear he looked at her. Ready to make contact, except she was on her computer, busy typing. She raises her head too late, he is already settling down, her back to her.

The same day. For once he doesn’t get the wrong order. The right drink appears on his table in good time. Elizabeth thinks he glances at her briefly, ready to smile. Ready to share a “hey, see, they can get it right” instant of amusement, except Elizabeth is taken by surprise again, she reacts too late; when she glances back at him The Most Obnoxious Man in The Word is focusing on his glass, his face a little flushed.

Maybe. 

Maybe it’s all in her imagination.

Maybe not. Elizabeth is not timid, she doesn’t underestimate her own charms, and detecting a man’s attention is part of her skill set. Her intuitions are often accurate – proof, the next day, The Most Obnoxious Man in the World says “oh, sorry” when his backpack bumps into her chair, not a random “oh sorry”, more of a “oh sorry” that could turn into a conversation if she reacted the right way, if she wanted more. And she does. (More on this subject in a few paragraphs, dear reader.) But she’s seized by an unexpected bout of shyness. 

A joke would have been perfect. Allowing him to joke back. Instead she just looks up and smiles Their eyes meet. Elizabeth feels her cheeks getting crimson and she hastily turns back to her fascinating press release about presbyopic eyeglasses. 

The Most Obnoxious Man in The Word sits down. Orders his drink. Gets his book.

Missed opportunity. 

**

“You are interested in someone you call The Most Obnoxious Man in The World and you want me to approve?” Charlotte asks, amused, on Elizabeth's terrace. 

Nine in the evening, the temperature is going down at last. The town, orange, grey and deep blue, not quite night yet. 

“Maybe he doesn’t deserve the nickname anymore,” Elizabeth muses. “After all, he was nice to Debora once.”

“Oh, he was pleasant _once_. Glowing endorsement.”

“Fair point.”

Also, “pleasant” might be overstating it. He was – not obnoxious. A client burned by his waitress spilling a hot drink on his chest is allowed some annoyance, as least on the moment – except in Jane Bennet’s Great Book of Rules where you have no right to be unpleasant, whatever the provocation. But to hold everyone to the unflinching set of Jane Bennet's moral rules would make the bar pretty high for humanity. 

“The truth is, the guy is very…” Elizabeth hesitates. Handsome? Cute? Well proportioned? Filling his tee-shirts in a most agreeable way? “He’s extremely good looking. Now, Charlotte, I know, you’re going to tell me it’s not a reason to…”

“Are you kidding? It’s an excellent reason to. The best, really.”

Elizabeth sighs. “What attracts me is the mystery. A tall, brooding handsome man, reading good literature, disapproving of the world. It’s intriguing. What is hidden behind the façade? Is he actually awful, or you know…” Elizabeth makes a dramatic, ironic gesture. “Dreadfully misunderstood?”

“The Beauty and the Beast, if the Beast was wearing fit, sexy white shirts.” Charlotte sips her drink. “I hate summer,” she nonsequiturs. “How can you stand that heat? Nah, don’t answer. Rhetorical question.”

**

Friday. Elizabeth thinks _he_ glanced at her again. Thinks he tried to talk to her twice. In normal circumstances she would make a move, but – she already did, remember? When she smiled her Elizabeth Bennet's “nobody ever resists me” smile, when she attempted to strike a conversation and was harshly rebuffed. 

She is not making a second try. Nope. No. Never. (He glances at her. Again.) Ok, maybe she should. If he’s shy, and she’s more sociable, it would be only fair to - to each their strengths, communication is hers, so, maybe – Elizabeth just ordered tea, if Debora gets it wrong again and brings the drink to _his_ table maybe Elizabeth could seize the opportunity to – too late, because the Most Obnoxious Man in The World closes his book and stands up and takes his backpack and crosses the street to pay the bill.

“NO!” Elizabeth screams.

The Most Obnoxious Man in The World freezes, looks to the left, the car screeches to a stop, missing him by a hair. On the terrace, everyone jumps, people scramble to their feet, ask if he is ok, he is, he steps back on the square, shaken, the driver gets out of her car to apologize.

“God,” the poor woman is saying, livid, “I almost – I swear I didn’t see you there…”

“It’s not your fault, it’s not– ” The Most Obnoxious Man in The World stammers at the same time, “I am so sorry, I was distracted…”

Things settle down. The woman drives away. Hamid himself steps out of the sacred realm of Behind The Counter to check if he didn’t just lose a regular; Debora seems awfully stricken. But a group of new customers arrives, ignorant of what just happened, soon it’s business as usual, Elizabeth is so pale.

The Most Obnoxious Man in The World turns to her. “Thank you,” 

“I feel so stupid,” Elizabeth whispers. “Shouting ‘no’ is not… I could have said, ‘the car!’, or ‘to your left!’, or something, you know, useful…”

“It worked. You saved… my life, or my leg, or who knows.” 

“Maybe just your backpack,” Elizabeth answers, senselessly. They stare at each other.

“Can I sit down?” The Most Obnoxious Man in The World asks, he means, at her table, Elizabeth draws the second chair for him. “Thank you,” he repeats, Elizabeth smiles, it’s feeble, but it’s there. 

Then… They talk. 

No awkwardness, no tension. It flows. The conversation starts with The Most Obnoxious Man in The World saying, “I can’t believe I didn’t look, my mind was elsewhere,” Elizabeth answers something about capacity of abstraction, how it makes you successful at school but gets you killed while crossing the street, a serious/fun conversation ensues about how the brain works, of all things, imagination, daydreaming and dissociation, then a pause, they are both smiling.

The Most Obnoxious Man in The World takes an amused, formal air, Elizabeth understands his intention and raises her hand to stop it.

“No! Don't tell me your name.” 

“Why?” he asks, obviously amused.

“Because.” She waves around. “Summer. Magic. You are… a stranger in a bar…”

“A stranger in a shabby café...”

“My imagination clearly works better than yours.” Elizabeth’s eyes shine. “In the spell of summer, a mysterious stranger just braved death… It makes a good beginning – let’s not spoil the mystery.”

The Most Obnoxious Man in The World is even more handsome when he smiles. “Very well. I like it, actually,” he adds after a moment of thought, “I am getting tired of myself anyway. But how should I address you?”

“Fake names?”

“Ok,” The Most Obnoxious Man in The World says, after a moment of consideration. “Let me think. In my family…”

"No clues about real life either. Except – if we lie. Like, any information we give should be the opposite of the truth.”

“Understood. Very well. I have…two brothers, and the first one is called… Let’s just say my name is George,” The Most Obnoxious Man in The Word decides with a grin.

“Excellent. My name is, hum… Emma.”

Smiles.

“Hi, George.”

“Hi, Emma.”


	5. Sleeping Beauty

“Hi, Emma,” George says, sitting down at his usual table, the next day.

Elizabeth grins. “Hi, George.”

Seconds tick away. George could add something. Elizabeth could too. Nothing happens, so she gets back to her work. George opens his book.

The universe is stubborn and doesn’t help them. The sun shines angrily. People talk loudly. Debora gets all her orders right. A mistake would have given Elizabeth an opening. Damn you Debora, all focused today, polite, efficient, like something good is happening in her life, like she is getting better AT JUST THE WRONG TIME; Elizabeth keeps her eyes on the computer, laughing silently at her selfish thoughts. Come on, Debora, just one last mistake. For me. Can you pour hot boiling tea on George? One last time, for the road? 

Debora doesn’t obey Elizabeth’s silent wishes. Good. In truth, Elizabeth doesn’t, shouldn’t want to strike a conversation. Not now. Not when she is set in her own comfortable bubble of existence.

(Except, her heart doing that little summersault when George said “Hi.”)

The heat is oppressive. 

George closes his book with a definitive “clap”. Elizabeth can’t help but look over.

“You finished it?” she asks without thinking, and instantly wants to bite her tongue.

“Yes,” George answers, his eyes still on the cover of ‘Twenty Years Later’. “Wow. A depressing read.”

“Dumas is so dark,” Elizabeth comments, amused by the fact that they already had this discussion, but it was all in her own head.

He smiles too. Elizabeth’s heart skips a beat. “I’m so hot, moooom,” a little boy protests, his mother dragging him somewhere.

George puts the book down. “I had a similar discussion with a friend recently, about Perrault. About darkness.”

“Oh, Perrault is awful.”

“He is,” George confirms, with deep conviction.

“Wait till you’ve read Andersen though.”

“I have. I did,” George declares, with the same slow, deep, convinced voice, as if persuading the world of the wickedness of Hans Christian Andersen was his mission, and he would carry it out, whatever the cost. “That man," he begins, "decided that it would be wonderful if parents everywhere told their innocent children the story of a sweet little orphan girl. Who sells matches in the street because her parents are dead. And whose grandmother, who took her in, is dead too, so the child is starving. Which is all perfectly fine, because she has those matches to sell, and she will find a way to get out of her predicament, certainly. Except it’s so cold in the street, the little girl uses the matches to warm herself. Then no more matches, so she freezes to death. In the street.”

Never had Elizabeth found the story of the horrifying death of an innocent orphan so amusing.

“You forget,” she adds, “that the Little Match Girl goes to heaven. The Little Mermaid doesn’t get that right. The Little Mermaid watches the man she loves marry another, then she dies, painfully, and alone, and THE GATES OF HEAVEN ARE CLOSED TO HER.”

“Yes!” George says, clearly incensed. “My si— my younger brother George cried a whole day when he read the story. He was ten, and he had stumbled on the actual ending by mistake…”

“Ten is too young for the real fairy tales.”

“Obviously.”

“Let’s start a movement — a war. The Political Movement for Better Fairy-Tales. Let’s stir the people away from glorifying tragedy! We’ll enlist troops. The revolution is coming.”

“That’s the spirit,” George says, focused on Elizabeth’s smile, he seems to have forgotten all of his exasperation, he’s just staring at her; Elizabeth turns crimson, she smiles again, shyly this time.

Silence.

Another polite smile. She goes back to work.

** 

Time just stretches in the heat.

George is fiddling on his phone. Maybe he doesn’t have another book. Maybe he’s just stalling, looking for another pretext to start the conversation. He will have to find a way though; Elizabeth won’t do it for him, not again.

Behind him, the queue at the ice cream vendor is getting longer. Kids rejoice. Adults look done in.

George finally stands up; he waves at Elizabeth with a gentle good-bye smile and leaves.

Work. Elizabeth crushes all sensations, buries them under six feet of sense and logic. 

Three minutes later. “Sorry. Hi again.”

George’s voice. Elizabeth looks up, he’s here, he’s back, he’s standing right in front of her. “Emma, would you, hum, would you have breakfast with me — here — tomorrow? At, I don’t know, maybe nine? If it works with your schedule, of course…”

Elizabeth has no schedule.

“S-Sure,” she stammers. “Yes. Why not?”

Who says “why not?” when a charming man invites you for breakfast? But George doesn’t seem offended, he just makes a sort of a gallant, awkward half-bow, then he walks away, for good this time.

**

Nine.

The sun is playing in the trees. The air, barely warm. The morning rush hour is over. Early workers who drink their daily expresso at Hamid’s counter before drudging away in the big construction site up the street already got their boost of the day.

Just Darcy and Elizabeth.

The parasols are not even open yet.

**

“So, what do you do for a living, Emma? Except typing with indomitable energy at a random schedule?”

“Are we still respecting the previous rules?” Elizabeth counters, smiling. “Because then, I have to lie.”

“I do enjoy the idea of keeping the mystery,” George says, after a pause.

“I have to wonder why. What would happen if I googled your real name? Are you a serial killer? A celebrity? A prince in exile?”

George smiles. "Fake names were your idea, dear Emma.”

“True. Maybe _I_ am the princess in exile. Hiding among the common folks, to escape my meaningless but luxurious existence...”

“English royalty, I suppose?” Georges comments.

“Oh — yes — of course. Very close to the queen, actually. Next in line for the throne.”

“Believe me, you do NOT want that job.”

“And this, dear George, is why I am in hiding.”

George grins. The result is…fascinating. 

**

Darcy loves it.

Her energy. The way her eyes shine and dance. The way she’s invested, in life, in her goals. The way seriousness and whimsy are threaded together, and you never know what you will get.

The way it is not a date, just breakfast under the trees — or maybe it is. Sun filtering through the leaves.

Her smile.

**

“Very well,” George finally says. “This is my proposition. We must lie, but in a truthful way. For instance, Emma, if you were a fireman, you could pretend to be…an ER nurse. Same purpose, comparable environment and lifestyle.”

“Oh, I see.”

“The fiction will preserve our anonymity, but still give insight into our characters and choices.”

“I — regrettably — am not a fireman. But… Ok, you start. What do _you_ do for a living, George?”

“I am unemployed at the moment,” he answers slowly. “This, as you certainly gathered, is the truth.”

Elizabeth sees George hesitate. The way he thinks before he talks makes their conversational rhythm different from what she is used to. Slower. Generally, Elizabeth likes it fast. Quick banter. Back and forth. Like with Charlotte, or with Henry.

This, the way George keeps his eyes on her, clearly pondering, is new.

“I was in the medical field,” he states at last. “Let’s say I was directing a hospital. It was a high-pressure job, unrelenting, but rewarding. I was doing something useful, something that mattered.”

“That is…the lie, right? The hospital.”

“Indeed. It does fit closely with the truth though.”

“Were you fired?”

“No. I quit. Please do not ask me why,” George adds with a smile. “The answer would be dreadfully absurd. Ok, your turn.”

Elizabeth takes a sip of coffee to hide her reaction. _She_ was in in med school, actually. She quit, after five years, despite good results, good grades, good friends. She just wasn’t into it, and was given the opportunity to start as a freelancer writer — communication for non-profits. Working for Henry, then getting her own clients. Elizabeth loves the freedom, the independence. That she does not have to start her day watching someone being opened alive. That she is not supposed to wield medical magic as a sleep-deprived intern, stressed beyond belief, harassed by fifty years old male doctors who still believe that random tyranny is a valid method of management.

“I was in law school,” she says, “and I quit.”

“Interesting.”

“Now I write for a living — this is the truth, you saw me and my best friend Harriett — that’s the name of my laptop. I… edit. Books. Thrillers, mostly. I also ghost write, nonfiction books, some novels.”

“And this part,” George says, still smiling, “is the lie.”

“A lie and wishful thinking at the same time. Editing is something I would love doing. And writing my own books after a while.”

“Maybe you will.”

“I am sure I will,” Elizabeth declares with an ambitious grin. “I just need time and the right opportunity. I will seize it, and then, my friend, I am telling you, Hans Christian Andersen will rue the day.”

**

Six.

No alarm clock for him anymore, but Darcy wakes up anyway, eyes right open, ready. Most of the time he can turn over and go to sleep again. With glee. He’s free. He was a prisoner but now he’s free.

Sometimes he stays awake, fighting subdued panic. There must be something he’s supposed to do. His schedule cannot possibly be clear. He will miss an important meeting, an important deal, the deal will fail, people will suffer, he will not be worthy of his father’s legacy or some other bullshit.

Most of the time, though, glee wins.

Today Darcy doesn’t go back to sleep. He puts some casual clothes on, goes down to the lobby to get a cup of the good coffee. He says hello and smiles at the woman who’s setting the breakfast buffet. He says hello and smiles and chats with the guy at the lobby. Darcy doesn’t want to, what he wants is silence and no meaningless interaction, but it’s part of the “reinventing himself” endeavor. One thing Georgiana told him. That he was disagreeable with…people.

“You’re pleasant to everyone in Pemberley,” his sister said. “So don’t start with introversion or whatever. I know you have it in you.”

But being pleasant to people in Pemberley is his duty.

(Was. Was his duty.)

Darcy cannot believe the guy in the lobby actually appreciates his efforts. Random small talk. “It’s supposed to be hot again today.” “I can’t wait for September.” Come on. The guy seems to appreciate it, but, God. Darcy would HATE being stuck behind a counter for work with people approaching him with irrelevant ramblings instead of letting him think.

The way Emma does it is different. The way Emma does it is lovely. She speaks to Deborah, she asks about her day, and Debora answers, soft, timid. Grateful.

Darcy takes the elevator back to his room, steaming mug in hand. In his room dawn is breaking. All greys.

He takes a chair and sets it just at the right angle in front of the window; he props his feet on the suitcase. Sipping coffee. The awful wall on his right, an interesting view on the left. A metal railing, then roofs, then trees. In-between the leaves, a glimpse of another street, cars passing through. It’s so early, they still have headlights on. Beams glittering, through charcoal and green, people going somewhere, glimpses of other trajectories.

He’s drifting, he knows. Since he stopped everything. He feels untethered. But maybe that’s ok, for a while.

He had forgotten how to live. Pemberley and all the related responsibilities, raising Georgiana among them, gave him structure. A timetable, duties he had to perform. And somewhere in the process Darcy forgot how to want things. He forgot he had never wanted this. (Pemberley and all the aforementioned responsibilities.)

“Oh, you poor little rich white boy,” Richard said, when Darcy explained, three months ago.

(Richard who is a rich white boy also.)

Bingley got mad. Surprising. Bingley rarely got angry, but this was one of the times.

“So what?” he spat, glaring at Richard. “Because Darcy is wealthy, he’s not allowed to have problems or doubts?”

“I’m just saying, he's awfully privileged. People are stuck in much more awful situations, and they do not have the luxury to quit,” Darcy’s cousin protested.

Bingley got even madder. “Such a useful comment. Because some people have it worse, Darcy should not try and change his situation? He should feel guilty about his unhappiness?”

“Children, behave,” Darcy said with quiet authority. “First, I do not feel guilty.”

(False. Darcy had always felt vague guilt, every day of his goddamn life, but this was a whole other unrelated issue.)

“I’m just trying to sort things out,” he continued, sipping his beer. “Without a therapist. Much more fun to eat pizza with you both and bore you with my rich people problems.”

**

And now there Darcy is, three months later. On his hotel chair, staring at greys. At car lights passing in the distance. And it’s better, it really is. Not perfect, but better.

Letting the world float.

**

“I made a new friend,” Darcy says to Georgiana, on the phone.

“Oh that is so great!” his sister answers. So sweet, as usual. (Except when she is yelling at him and at his life choices around celebratory beers in Hunsford Pub). “Who is he?”

“She, huh, her name is Emma. She’s a writer. Of sorts.”

“Pretty?”

“Tolerable,” Darcy answers. Thinking of Elizabeth Bennet, the most wonderful woman on earth who is apparently just a seven. But certainly, Elizabeth’s eyes don’t sparkle like Emma’s.

“Aren’t you destined to be with Jane’s sister Elizabeth?” Georgiana protests. No, she doesn’t read Darcy’s mind. Yes, Darcy tells her everything. “You are cheating on your unknown, future, flawless bride.”

“Alas, such a tragic tale. Elizabeth is destined to be a mirage. She and I will never meet.”

“Come on, tell me more about Emma.” You can hear the smile in her voice; Georgiana is the most romantic young woman that ever was born. Darcy knows she’s ready to braid Emma’s hair with white flowers and call her favorite (and only) sister, and he should not get Georgiana’s hopes up, because the Emma thing, it’s not real, of course.

After the call, Darcy takes a moment to consider the strange thought.

_It’s not real._

Of course it’s not. It’s a spell, a fluke, an enchantment of the heatwave. The world is suspended in summer and strange things happen, but they will unravel as soon as autumn and real life start again. You don’t meet meaningful people at the café next door, not really. (And if you think you did, they’ll disappoint.) People who matter, relationships start slowly, affection and esteem building over the years. Or, maybe someone who knows you well wants to introduce you to the right person (Elizabeth Bennet, apparently). 

Anyway. Meeting someone requires thought. Care. Attention. It’s not random. Not the universe placing you at a table just next to a lively, kind girl with an enchanting smile.

So, sure, it’s not real. Except when Darcy realizes an hour later he doesn’t have Emma’s phone number he panics. Then tries to quell his fears. She will be at the café tomorrow.

She'll be there.

If she doesn't, he has no way to see her again, ever.

**

“I am so glad you met...a friend,” Georgiana said, during the phone call. “To get you out of your slumber. You’ve been sleeping for the last ten years, Fitzwilliam. Someone has to wake you up.”


	6. Angels

“Sorry you missed Darcy again, Elizabeth,” Bingley says, a sophisticated cocktail in hand. “He’s having dinner with his aunt. Or he is fighting with his aunt. Or something. His family is pretty messed up.”

Netherfield. Late. The moon is shining. A party, thirty guests, good food, Jane being the perfect hostess in a gorgeous new dress. Henry, Elizabeth’s main client/kind-of-a close-friend-really is behind the bar making the aforementioned sophisticated cocktails. 

“Darcy, like, Fitzwilliam Darcy?” Henry asks, finishing a strange champagne concoction with coffee liquor and raspberries. He handles it to Elizabeth. “Darcy from Pemberley? You know him, Bingley?”

“Since we were kids!” Bingley says with pride, like he’s close to Captain America and the glory is reflecting on him. 

Henry is duly impressed. “I’m a fan. The whole Pemberley hybrid business concept. The things he tried, the people he helped. He seems like such a great guy.”

“The Darcy brat? But didn’t he sell everything?” John Thorpe protests, sitting on the counter, drinking a beer. “He got rid of all his ‘good deeds businesses’, right? Seems his altruism didn’t last, Darcy just wanted the cash after all.”

Elizabeth politely smiles. John Thorpe has been hitting on her all night, and not being subtle about it. He is the kind of guy who doesn’t like when something (or someone) is complimented, and instantly contradicts any good opinion (of anything, anyone) with acid mockery. Elizabeth keeps count, just for fun: John Thorpe did not say ONE positive thing all evening. 

“You understand me so well,” Elizabeth tells John Thorpe an hour later when he tries to sweet-talk Elizabeth’s by insinuating Jane and Bingley are a little dumb, you know, being so nice all the time, right, borderline idiotic by moments, you must admit, come on, that’s what everybody’s secretly thinking, correct, Lizzy? Can I call you Lizzy? John seems to believe his wit works, that Elizabeth thinks he is so clever for being blasé, so he tries to kiss her near the coat rack; Elizabeth dodges him easily, “Not even if you got me very, very drunk,” she comments. “Not even if you slipped me a roofie.”

She walks away. Full of regret. Not about not kissing John Thorpe — yuck, and also, YUCK — but about the way she rejected him. She could have been nicer about it. She should have.

“Hey,” she whispers to him around midnight while he is grabbing another beer from the fridge. “Sorry for my reaction sooner. It’s just, I’m… I’m seeing someone.”

(Not totally a lie. ‘Emma’ had a breakfast date with George, right? It was a date… Was it?)

Two days later, Elizabeth will have a fiery debate with Charlotte who will take the feminist side of the John Thorpe’s issue. Charlotte will argue that’s Elizabeth shouldn’t have apologized, that it’s not women’s responsibility to ensure men won’t get offended by a rejection. Elizabeth disagrees. Protests that general kindness can never go wrong, not that she’s good enough at wielding it. Charlotte has strong arguments, though.

“You thought I wanted to kiss _you_?” John Thorpe spits, near the fridge. “Are you delusional?”

Oh, well. No regrets after all. Elizabeth could crush him with a few words, a thousand good retorts cross her mind but — being Jane, remember, being kind. Instead she raises her glass to him with an amiable “all right then” before walking away.

It seems Henry was striding in Elizabeth’s direction though, because he looks all intense and dark and asks, “Is John bothering you?”

“He’s trying. But being mostly unsuccessful.”

“Hey! You’re Henry Tilney!” John says, his beer still in hand, his speech getting a little slurred.

“Hey! You’re an asshole,” Henry replies. “Catherine told me about you. Stay the fuck away.”

See, a pretty good evening after all.

Later, on the balcony. Elizabeth is trying to distinguish in the dark square below the precise spot where she had her ‘date’ with George when Henry joins her and begins waxing lyrical about Darcy — Darcy that he never met (Does Darcy actually exists? Elizabeth wonders) but is somehow still Henry’s personal hero. 

“And Darcy did not get rid of all his ‘good deeds businesses’, as John Thorpe so astutely put it, after the sale of Pemberley,” Henry states, as if he cannot stand to have his icon’s reputation tarnished. “He gathered all the non-profits parts of the business in a foundation before selling the profitable part. The Darcy Foundation is still managing the rest. As an homage to his father, I guess.”

Elizabeth is intrigued. She poses enough questions that Henry has to ask, “Do you know Darcy?”

“No, but I’m supposed to marry him. Long story.”

“I'd better be invited to the wedding,” Henry comments, sipping his drink. “I’ll get an autograph. Or a selfie.”

**

George is at the café the next morning and Elizabeth can’t help smiling. George smiles back. 

(So gorgeous.)

Elizabeth blushes. She sits down and starts working. They do not talk. A bubble of warmth has lodged itself in her stomach though. 

Time passes. George is reading Shakespeare. Elizabeth emails a few files to Henry, who will pretend to edit them before sending them to the designer and then to his own clients.

Done. She closes her laptop with a satisfied smile. George raises his eyes.

“Dear Emma, I would like to make a comment about Shakespeare.”

“Please proceed.”

“’Parting is such sweet sorrow…’ Romeo and Juliet slept together that night, didn’t they? In the full…significance of the term?”

Elizabeth thinks for a minute. “I suppose you’re right. Violent delights after all.”

“Juliet is thirteen.”

“Do we know how old is Romeo?”

“Do you want to get lunch?” is George’s answer, and Elizabeth smiles again. 

“Sure. I mean, yes.” Still smiling, she can’t seem to stop. “Not here, though.” 

“God no.”

Hamid only serves sandwiches. They’re very bad; they do not sell well. In the evenings, Hamid gives some away, but not all, so stale sandwiches appear for sale on the next day, which doesn’t help the sandwiches’ reputation — or turnover. A sandwiches vicious circle, if you will.

George grabs his expresso cup and slides to Elizabeth’s table, sitting right across from her. They both blush.

A pause.

“Do you, hum, do you have a favorite restaurant, Emma?”

“I do, but people would know me. I’ve lived here — in this neighborhood — all my life. The waiters would call me by my real name and what would become of our anonymity pact?”

“Catastrophe, disaster. The failure of all we’ve been trying to build,” George comments, grabbing his phone. “Fortunately, I hear that there is this new network called the internet, which helps people finding places to eat in case of emergency…”

“No — wait,” Elizabeth intervenes, smiling. “Selecting a restaurant through Yelp would be — so mundane. Not…mysterious enough. We have to find another way.”

She fears, for a split second, that she wandered too far into weirdness territory, but George takes her reaction in stride and puts the phone down. “As you wish, milady. How do we choose?”

“Maybe,” Elizabeth begins after a short pause, “you pick a number — for instance, if you say ‘four’, we choose a direction and just enter the fourth restaurant we see?”

Impressive how George stays perfectly sober in the face of absurdity. “I disagree, this is way too simplistic. I knew a few game designers at work…” He stops. “Ah. Forget I said this.”

Elizabeth laughs. “You mean, you met a few game designers in the _hospital_. The one you managed.”

“Right. You know, patients.”

“Of course.”

“Your rule is too subject to confusion. As you see, there are…” George counts silently, looking around, “five different ways to leave this square. So first, you must select a number from one to five to pick the street. Starting at the red light, going clockwork. Then we will choose another number for the restaurant.”

They refine the concept for a few delightful minutes; when the dust settles, street number four and restaurant number fourteen have been chosen, and it’s so perfect, the fake negotiations, George’s eyes shining, the ludicrousness of it all, when they prepare to leave there is a fleeting moment when Elizabeth thinks George is going to kiss her — right there near her table — it doesn’t happen, and maybe Elizabeth dreamed it; they end up in restaurant number eight because it looks good, they already walked pretty far, and God knows what dive number fourteen could turn out to be. Even if “rules are rules”, chances for edible food matter more.

**

They talk. Around delicious plates of Greek food. 

“Want to break even more rules and have a glass of wine at lunch? On a weekday?” Darcy proposes, thinking, hey, he’s free, he doesn’t have to go back to work after, he doesn’t have to look serious and responsible for his team, he can have a glass of rosé at noon on a Thursday and the world will not collapse. Emma hesitates, then agrees, a nice waiter is soon back with their glasses, the food is delectable, or maybe it’s just good, and what’s enchanting is the context and the company. 

“I feel guilty,” Emma explains, which explains the hesitation. “I know I make my own schedule, so I am allowed to have a glass of wine if I want to. This is why I quit…This is why I quit law school after all.”

“To drink wine?”

“To be free,” is Emma’s laughing answer; Darcy doesn’t mention he just had the same thought — she could see it as a lie or a lame attempt at seduction. “The problem is,” Emma continues “when I use that freedom… for instance, for wandering the streets with a gentleman I hardly know and have, oh the horror, a glass of wine with him at lunch, I have the impression that I am cheating on my work.”

“That feeling has actually a name; it’s a real syndrome with freelancers. I worked with a lot of…” Darcy has to stop there, “I dealt with a lot of freelancers in Pemberley, for business or for the start-ups we were helping” is not something he can utter aloud. 

Emma laughs. “In the hospital you worked in, there were a lot of…freelancers nurses? And doctors?”

“We were an unusual establishment,” Darcy confirms with perfect seriousness, it’s worth it to see Emma’s eyes shine with amusement. “Anyway, I was told about freelancer guilt… the fact that they feel they cannot refuse any job, ever, for fear it will jinx fate, they will never have a client again and end up starving in the hedgerows.” 

The statement leads to a perfectly regular, earnest conversation about professional trappings, stress and burn out, with no mention of English royalty, fake hospitals or absurd games for the next half an hour. Darcy shrewdly maneuvers the discussion to learn more about Emma’s work, she still hides the nature of her writing, but speaks about finances, her worries, and how she’s managing her days; Darcy appreciates it, that they talk about real life too, that Emma seems…rational, grounded, about her job and her income at least. 

That’s good. Darcy loves the fun, light, whimsical aspect of her personality of course, it’s just… He has always been the serious one. He has seen other people being fun. 

He never realized one could be both. 

(He never realized one had the right to decide to be both.)

**

“Ok,” he says when they walk out of the restaurant. “Close your eyes.” Emma hesitates, then obeys. “Choose a number between one and three.”

“Two.”

A pause. He could kiss her. Right now, while her eyes are closed. But that would be taking advantage, right? It would?

“This way then.” 

Emma opens her eyes, beams when she realizes he made them choose between two directions. “Are we looking for coffee?” she asks, while they enter a narrow road with small houses, tiny gardens and a few low buildings.

“That was the idea,” Darcy answers as they’re walking, “but it doesn’t seem like we’re going to find anything this way. Shall we go back?”

“What! No, it would be cheating. The universe has decided, we must listen,” Emma protests with a fake dramatic air. The neighborhood becomes even more residential, and — not poorer exactly, but at least quirkier, with intricate gardens and strange no< man’s lands; it feels like an adventure, a really low stake one, to advance in the unknown and Darcy is suddenly…floating, carried by a strange kind of euphoria, because the sun is glowing, the heat like a protecting cloud, Emma is telling him about the history of the place, her eyes bright; they complicate the game, each time they get to a crossroads they flip a coin, tails mean they turn, head means they stay on the street, then they find a strange patch of abandoned terrain with tall trees and brambles, they try to cross it while speculating why a wild patch still exists in a part of town that may be not that pricey, but still expensive enough that it makes no financial sense to leave precious real estate unattended. "The land is cursed” Darcy decides, (his interpretation goes well with secrets, games, fake names and princesses), then they hear steps and run, because they might be on someone’s property after all; they emerge on the other side laughing, in a different street, Fates have led them right, there’s a café waiting for them. 

It looks really bad. It’s really dirty. They’re still laughing when they order two expressos at the counter, Emma puts in a ton of sugar make her coffee palatable, it takes Darcy a few seconds to realize he could too — not that there are any standing rules on the matter, it just — seems decadent — like a glass of wine at lunch on a weekday — so dammit all, he puts three sugars in his tiny cup just for rebellion’s sake, it tastes even worse, he tells Emma all about it and the incident nourishes an absurd and hilarious conversation about tiny acts of defiance, before Emma tells him, somewhat out of context, and after a slight pause:

“I want to state that I do not actually believe in any of it — synchronicity, fate, or the universe having intentions.” Emma seems embarrassed — it’s endearing. When she meets Darcy’s eyes she adds quickly, “I would not have you thinking I am crazy, sir, or into mysticism of any kind. It is just fun to pretend.”

Darcy thinks for a while. Emma is steadily watching him. “I might be more of a romantic than you are,” he concludes at last. “Or crazier, by your definition. I never gave it serious thought, but I… I would not dismiss the concept of synchronicity out of hand.”

“Aw,” Emma says, with a relieved smile. “How sad. I really have to get back to work, and this has such great debate potential.”

“Next time,” Darcy says, smiling too; they don’t kiss, during the short, charged silence that ensues; they don’t kiss when they pause for a tense, uncomfortable moment after stepping out of the café, they don’t kiss during the surprisingly long, silent walk back to the square — they wandered farther than they thought. Now they’re back — standing shyly near Emma’s table, Darcy could kiss her, he wants to kiss her, he’s dying to kiss her except he — he loses his nerve, he doesn’t dare — angels pass by, hesitate before blushing and flying away, Emma sits down, her cheeks pink, they say good-bye, his hotel is waiting, Darcy walks back, his heart beating wild.


	7. Peak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please remember that this story takes place three years after Pride and Prejudice, so everyone is a bit older, except Darcy, who is still 28, because - vaguely waving hands the Jedi way - reasons. :)

The heatwave is reaching its peak. (They say).

Going to last for three more days (they say.) The hottest days of the year – and then the heat will subside, slowly.

**

Darcy feels a sense of urgency he cannot account for.

**

Netherfield apartment. Sunset. Another party. Bingley’s guests, and a few of Jane’s friends from her high school or business school days. Pizzas, fancy organic salads, chips, vegan cakes, super expensive beers, cheap juice, whatever people brought. Darcy grabs a beer, a dark one. They’re the best but somehow people always buy more light beer, so you’ve got to grab the good ones quickly.

“Sorry you missed Elizabeth again,” Bingley chimes, a drink in hand, a discreet shine of sweat on his brow. “She’s at…a work thing? I’m not sure, honestly.”

“At a work thing? What is Elizabeth’s job exactly?” Darcy asks. Certainly, Jane already explained it all, ages ago, but in the beginning, Darcy wasn’t really listening to all the praise, to be honest. It’s only when Elizabeth refused to go on a date with him that he really got interested. Not… _romantically_ interested. Not when Darcy spent the night dreaming he and Emma locked themselves in by mistake in one of those quirky houses they passed by. In the dream they were striving to get out, but couldn’t. Then the dream shifted, and their efforts to find an escape route were interspersed with…more _graphic_ ways to pass the time. Darcy now knows how Dream Emma looks, ahem, everywhere.

When he woke up, it seemed so real, for a hot second.

Elizabeth is important to Darcy too though. As a symbol. Elizabeth is a concept, speaking of a bright future where all doors are open, a woman, _the_ woman, walking with Darcy along the meandering road, her smile bright like the sun.

Bingley did not answer Darcy's question, he’s looking toward the kitchen, frowning, so Darcy repeats his inquiry about Elizabeth’s job. “She, hum, she…” Bingley begins, before cutting himself off with a grumbling “Sorry” and striding toward the oven. Yup, it smells like burned pizza. Black smoke is drifting near the bar among unconcerned guests.

“Elizabeth, you mean Lizzy? I would be tapping that, but she’s a pretentious bore,” a man declares, on Darcy’s left. The guy is sitting on the table (yes, _on_ the table) drinking. “Also, she’s kind of a dog. Elizabeth’s sister over there, though,” the man adds, gaping at Jane, or at Jane’s lower back...area, “as soon as she gets bored of that moron she’s dating, I’ll volunteer for rebounding duty.” The man turns to Darcy, “I mean, right? You know what I mean, right?”

“I must have misheard,” Darcy answers. Slowly. “Did you just call my best friend an idiot, and proclaimed you wanted to screw her fiancée? Maybe you wish to reformulate.”

The guy looks blank for a second. 

“Shut up John,” a young woman intervenes, staring the man down – seriously, that guy is such a caricature that Darcy actually wonders if he is real, and had not just sprung out of a romance book as “Awful Male Guest Archetype.” But hey, archetypes have to come from somewhere. Caroline, Bingley’s sister, often sounds like a mean girl cliché, and she’s very very real. 

“Never listen to John Thorpe,” the unknown young woman tells Darcy. She has blue, short hair and at least three piercings. Awful Male Guest Archetype – John – looks at her, mouth gaping, as if no woman ever talked back at him before. “John tried to hit on Elizabeth yesterday and she laughed at her face,” the young woman continues. “There’s no wrath like an asshole scorned, that’s the quote, right?”

Darcy nods. “Shakespeare’s words verbatim.” 

“Elizabeth hit on _me_ ,” John protests.

The young woman carefully looks John up and down. “Sorry. Not believable.” 

John glares, he walks away. The temperature has only gotten higher. “Can we open more windows?” a guest asks somewhere. A woman is fanning herself with a pot lid. Even Darcy is uncomfortable in his tight white tee-shirt. 

The blue-haired young woman raises her bottle at him. “The heat brings morons out of the wood. I’m Lydia, Jane’s sister. Lizzy’s sister too, obviously. There are a lot of us Bennet women.”

“I heard,” Darcy says, raising his glass in return. “I’m Fitzwilliam.”

Lydia looks at _him_ up and down, with the same lack of subtlety she used on John. “You came here alone, Fitzwilliam?”

“Huh… Yes.”

“Wanna get somewhere more…private?” Lydia asks. “Clothes are overrated tonight, don’t you think?”

“Oh, er. I. I am. Thanks. I am kind of…seeing someone,” Darcy stammers.

“Shame,” Lydia declares cheerfully before walking away. Darcy takes another sip of his beer, damn, this girl is what, nineteen? Twenty? Around Georgiana’s age, and fearless. Or is it the heat again? So this is a third Bennet sister; supposedly there are five of them. Darcy glances at Jane, who is working the room with her usual grace and restraint; ok, Jane and Lydia cannot be more different. Now Darcy imagines Elizabeth as a mix between the two, “Lizzy” Bennet, a pretty brunette with some blue streaks in her hair, a sweet voice, a provocative smile. Looking at him up and down. Then Elizabeth morphs into Emma, giving Darcy the same appraising look, asking, “Wanna get somewhere more…private?” in a sultry voice and ok, new subject, please.

“Elizabeth? She’s a doctor,” another woman tells Darcy an hour later, during another discussion, there’s no more ice in the fridge and cold drinks are getting scarce. “At least she must be now, I suppose. I have not seen her, for, I don’t know, two years?”

Of course Elizabeth Bennet is a doctor. Also saving babies from burning buildings, certainly. Having a secret identity. Fighting evil at night in a tight, sexy black costume.

“It’s too bad Elizabeth is not here tonight,” someone else declares. “She’s so great.”

Darcy smiles. He’s getting tired. “I heard.”

**

The sense of urgency is not leaving Darcy.

The next morning Emma is not at the café. Darcy’s heart sinks. He cannot concentrate on Macbeth, on sonnets, on anything. 

_When I do count the clock that tells the time,_  
_And see the brave day sunk in hideous night_ , he reads, twice, before deciding Shakespeare has always been annoying. Somehow he and Emma have still not traded phone numbers. And now she’s vanished from Hamid’s café – their only common ground, their only way to interact. It doesn’t matter if she’s gone, Darcy tries to reason. It was fun till it lasted, but what they had was a mirage, a play of the heat on the desert sand. Not destined to last. Regret would be nonsensical. 

And then in the afternoon Emma steps from the sycamores’ shadows onto the café’s terrace, a smile on her lips, her purple backpack on her shoulder, and Darcy can breathe again.

“Sorry,” she explains, sitting down. “I had an urgent assignment to finish. It’s kind of a big deal,” she adds, while Darcy’s brings his chair closer. “If things go right, I can land an important client, and then…” Emma’s eyes shine. “Fortune and glory. Diamond shoes, platinum cars.”

“Both choices seem very unsafe,” Darcy answers, his heart singing. (Emma’s here! She came back!) “And I can't help thinking diamond shoes would be dreadfully uncomfortable.”

“I might settle for a new laptop at first.”

“Do you want to get dinner tonight?” Darcy blurts, then feels himself reddening. But Emma turns pink too, her usual poise evaporating, and Darcy feels better.

“Huh, sure. Yes. With pleasure.”

A pause. Awkward but pleasant. Darcy’s heart is beating a bit too fast. “I made plans,” he explains, casually. “For tonight. In the neighborhood. I’m not telling you, it’s a surprise.”

“Perfect,” Emma answers, with her (perfect) smile. A pause, Darcy slides his chair back to his table, Emma opens her laptop, she starts working. Darcy gets back to reading. 

He longs to talk more, to ask her opinion about Shakespeare’s sonnets. Although in the one he’s reading now, William S. is explaining to the woman of his dreams that the only way to fight the destructive advance of time is to, hum, “breed”. With him. (Obviously.)

So, you know. Let’s keep this particular literary theme for another conversation.

**

7 pm. 

The city’s burning. Hot tar. Hot metal. Food smells, drifting from restaurants. People in cars, opening their windows to breathe. Or keeping them closed, air conditioning blazing.

**

“We are not going to survive the evening,” Emma declares, laughing. She’s wearing a summer dress, dark green, simple lines. “Sorry about my hair,” she adds with a smile, “when it’s hot like this, my curls grow savage.”

"I forgive your hair," Darcy states, which doesn't make any sense, but who cares. "Ok, drinks first, dinner second," he explains. "Two different places." 

They have drinks in a secret garden. You enter through the cheapest looking café in the middle of a busy street, then go through the reserve, a door opens into a garage and if you go through it too, you arrive in an abandoned backyard, full of plants, in-between the buildings. The ground is a mess, broken concrete, scorched grass, wildflowers. Crooked trees, plastic outdoor furniture. A few mismatched parasols. A great inside terrace for the café though, when they finish redoing it – one day.

“Oh, no way serving drinks here is legal,” Emma comments, her eyes shining, while they sit. “This is clearly not respecting any norms whatsoever. I love it.”

“I thought you would.”

They do serve drinks, to people in the know; Darcy found the place thanks to Deborah, actually. Now the light is turning golden, playing on the brick walls, catching on the patched grass. The city is humming around them, present but invisible. It feels too dangerous to order anything homemade, but they decide you cannot go wrong with wine and olives and are pleasantly surprised. Darcy asks about Emma’s important client, she respects their game by weaving some elaborate lies, “with solid elements of truth,” she swears, and it is hot still, but the temperature is much more bearable outside, among trees, with drinks in hand, “your mind associates the heat with vacation then, and processes it differently,” Emma decides – they talk about psychology, then it’s eight, eight-thirty, Darcy’s dinner reservation is at nine, pretty late, even for lazy, hazy days of summer, but he thought the air would be cooler in the evening. 

They walk toward the restaurant. 

The sun is setting. The streets are busy. Urgency gnaws at Darcy again. He wants more, more of Emma, more intimacy. It’s not about sex, more about connection. Something is burning between them, beautiful and hot but he’s not quite grasping it, his fingers barely grazing the surface. Maybe it’s their game, the lies, the secret identities, creating distance. Maybe they actually locked themselves in, like in Darcy's dreams. Maybe they cannot reach each other. Or maybe if he took Emma’s hand, maybe if he kissed her, again he doesn’t dare, the moment is not right - not the good kind of tension – they arrive at the restaurant’s entrance.

“Oh,” Emma whispers.

It’s in a garden again, but a magnificent one. The building is a 19th-century red-brick mansion in a calm, residential neighborhood, you eat in what was once a small but beautiful private park, oak and chestnut trees, luscious roses, a perfectly tended gravel walk. Cream tinted parasols, candles on the wooden tables, excellent food, expensive enough that Darcy arranges for Emma to get a guest menu. She notices – she gives him a quick glance – she doesn’t comment, and then, the whole evening is enchanted. 

The awkwardness, the urgency, gone. 

The warmth, now down to an acceptable level. The sky, the night. Darcy sees the magic of the moment reflected in Emma’s eyes, he knows she’s impressed, she’s swept away – he saw her blushing violently when they entered the restaurant, realizing it was an upscale place, because – because that choice makes the whole evening suddenly real. This is not another quirky place they could have gone to as friends. No, this – the stars, the garden, it says 'date' – it says 'courtship' – the realization is floating between them, they cannot pretend that they are just walking around the neighborhood having fun anymore, and… It works.

It really really works.

Emma takes a sip of champagne and blushes again. It’s endearing, the way she’s so sure of herself but turns so shy when emotion is in play. 

“I want to know more about you, George,” she asks. “I feel – you are still a stranger, in a way. Tell me… something essential.”

Maybe she shared his impression, Darcy wonders. That they were dancing around closeness, but not quite getting there. 

“Do you want to put an end to the game?” he asks. “Do you want my real name and all that goes with it?”

Silence. Emma hesitates. Darcy is scared all of a sudden, terrified even. But in a good way. Like the truth is such a huge step, and if they take it…

“No. Not yet.” She smiles again, mischievously. “No, but you could tell me… So, you quit your job. At the ‘hospital.' How long ago?”

“Four months.”

“You go to cafés and you read.”

“Basically.”

“What are you going to do after? Not that reading forever is not a perfectly valid life choice, but most of us could hardly afford it...”

 _I could_ , Darcy thinks, instantly. One of the reasons it’s better if Emma doesn’t learn his real name – not yet. 

“I do intend to go back to work,” he explains, after a pause. “When I resigned, my, huh, my partner at the hospital warned me. Told me I should be careful. People with important responsibilities tend to jump at the next big thing, he said. He said people like me were addicted to work, to adrenaline, to responsibilities...” 

Mrs Reynolds was, of course, the one who gave give Darcy the advice. “He said that I should take a breather,” Darcy continues, “to really think about what I wanted to do next. To redefine what I should do with my life.”

Emma nods, eagerly following the conversation. 

“So…That’s the first reason I’m taking a break. But also… Remember my brother, George?”

Emma smirks. “I remember your name is George, and your brother’s is as well. Interesting family.” 

Darcy’s father is also a George. And Wickham, too. God. “Too many Georges,” Darcy confirms, before telling Emma everything: how George (Georgiana) told Darcy that he was losing touch with reality, that he was an ass with people, haughty, dismissive. But Georgiana was also worried about him and wanted Darcy to get a life. Outside of Pemberley. 

“I think George was wrong about my attitude,” Darcy explains, after a pause, Emma’s bright eyes still focused on him. “I don’t think I am – I was – I can't believe I was that awful, really. But even if it is only people’s perception of me… Perception matters and I should fight it. And even if George was just partially right… Well.” Darcy pauses. “Anyway. It was time for a change.” 

Emma is fascinated. They talk about it all – introversion, communication, and yes, the desire for change, but also staying true to one’s nature – and there’s no new solution or angle that Emma finds that Darcy has not already thought about, there’s no technique to follow, the only solution is to be more mindful and trying to be better.

“Do you know I had named you ‘The Most Obnoxious Man Alive’ when I first met you?” Emma says.

“Oh God. Really? I named you Annoying Girl,” is Darcy’s instantaneous answer, and Emma laughs so sincerely that – everything stops, because all Darcy wants is to kiss her. The impression is so strong – he’s not listening anymore, Emma is laughingly apologizing for being a nuisance before (clearly she doesn’t mean a word of it), and suddenly Darcy grabs her hand across the table and kisses it – and the world does stop, Emma seems stunned, her hand is shivering slightly in his, she stammers something incomprehensible and turns red again, Darcy doesn’t let her hand go, she doesn’t move away, and Darcy is burning, everything is burning, and the dinner is not even over yet, far from it.


	8. Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I just published **"Games of Love and Cruelty."** Most of you have already read it on this site; the published text has a slightly different ending... Very slightly. :) 
> 
> For those who haven't read it, "Games of Love and Cruelty" is an Elizabeth/Darcy story taking place in the same universe as "Heatwave". Same characters, but the love story goes in a different way: what if Elizabeth and Darcy had met three years before? I cannot give a direct link to the book, it would be against the rules!
> 
> For those who follow my meandering creative process, there are now five stories in "my" modern Darcy/Elizabeth universe, the Heatwave universe, which I call the Slices of Life universe:
> 
> \- **Slices of Life** (on AO3)  
> \- **Why is it perfect?** (on AO3)  
> \- **I told you so!** (still a WIP, on AO3)  
> \- **Games of Love and Cruelty**  
>  \- **Heatwave** (you're currently reading it!)
> 
> Voilà, you know everything!

“Do you know I had named you ‘The Most Obnoxious Man Alive’ when I first met you?” Emma says.

“Oh God. Really? I named you Annoying Girl,” is Darcy’s instantaneous answer, and Emma laughs so sincerely that – everything stops, because all Darcy wants is to kiss her. The impression is so strong – he’s not listening anymore, Emma is laughingly apologizing for being a nuisance before (clearly she doesn’t mean a word of it), and suddenly Darcy grabs her hand across the table and kisses it – and the world does stop, Emma seems stunned, her hand is shivering slightly in his, she stammers something incomprehensible and turns red again, Darcy doesn’t let her hand go, she doesn’t move away, and Darcy is burning, everything is burning, and the dinner is not even over yet, far from it.

**

The world pauses. Candles. Darkness. The leaves rustling in the bushes. The subdued voices of the other guests, at the other tables, scattered in the small park. 

“Your turn. Tell me something. Significant, essential…about you,” George asks.

(Still holding her hand.)

Elizabeth’s heart is pounding. It’s painful, almost. She didn’t expect it – the evening to go this way, so tender, so serious. This is all so unexpected from the beginning. Meeting someone in a café, someone worthy. She didn’t expect the world to tilt on its axis, so fast. 

“My…issue… My situation is the opposite of yours, George,” she explains, after a while. She hesitates; it’s complex, what she has to convey. “You are at a crossroads, personally and professionally. You want to change your life, to rethink your entire existence...”

“I do.”

“I, on the opposite… Ok. See…” Elizabeth takes a deep breath. “I had a rather pleasant childhood, but of course, it was not perfect, it never is. I felt out of place. I had conflicts with…one of my parents.” Their secret identities’ game is still on, so Elizabeth has to stay vague, she cannot use “my mother”, or “she.” “They were not toxic or anything, just wildly and daily infuriating...”

George smiles. “We all have one of those. If not a parent, a close relation.” 

“I feel petty complaining about what really were minor family issues,” Elizabeth sighs. “But we are sharing truths, right?”

“We are. Lying about our names, about everything and everyone, but sharing truths nonetheless,” George confirms, his demeanor so serious Elizabeth cannot help a smile. 

“You are so formal, sometimes.” 

“Is it the use of ‘nonetheless’?”

“Yes – no – it is everything about you, George. Good family, good education, private schools?” Elizabeth asks, her eyes dancing with amusement. Then – again, what a gorgeous smile this man has. It’s just not fair.

“My dear Emma, obviously, I cannot comment on your fascinating suppositions,” George answers, exaggerating his haughty air of primness, and Elizabeth laughs, before George adds, “but let’s get back to the topic at hand. You were saying you felt out of place.”

Elizabeth explains, how she became so much happier when she got her own apartment, away from her affectionate but infuriating siblings and parents. Except, then, she chose the wrong path – going to medical school – of course Elizabeth still says “law school,” because, the game. 

“But see,” she concludes, “now, I got it all at last. I love my family. I visit often, they live so close – but when they get too noisy – or too nosey – I can leave and go back to my lovely, tiny, peaceful home, in my lovely, quirky childhood neighborhood. I finally got the guts to quit my studies. I adore my work. My life is textbook perfect right now, and I do not want anything to change, ever…” 

A pause. Elizabeth looks at George, trying to convey her meaning. “So… This is why… I have to admit I am kind of scared of… of this, right now,” she whipers, holding George’s hand tighter, so he doesn’t interpret it as a dismissal. “Any – hum, fling - or a new budding relationship could be…” Elizabeth takes a deep breath. “Meeting a handsome man in a café could be potential for disaster.”

“Or at least, for disruption,” George comments thoughtfully, while Elizabeth nods. “Any change comes with the risk of destroying your hard-earned equilibrium,” he concludes, still not letting go of her hand though; Elizabeth is still holding tight.

“Yes. At the same time,” she adds, turning red, “there is seduction in… Something dangerous…is always, more, you know…”

“Taboo. Intriguing. Fascinating. Sexy...”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth whispers, her cheeks burning, as the waiter brings them dessert; they both ordered lemon pie; dangerous, fascinating bitter taste of lemon, delicious meringue sweetness. 

**

“Dangerous. Taboo. Intriguing. Fascinating. Sexy,” George repeats with evident self-satisfaction, half an hour later. They’ve been slowly walking back, under the veiled moon, in the heat of the night. “I have never been called a _dangerous_ man before. Intriguing, yes...”

“I didn’t say you were dangerous, George. I said the situation was…”

“I've been called fascinating, obviously...”

“Of course.”

"Sexy, well, I hear it at least twice a day...

"I am not rolling my eyes right now. A lady never would."

“But dangerous, never. I like it. _Dangerous_ ,” George growls, while Elizabeth is silently laughing. 

“Again, not you exactly, also, the stakes are really pretty low…” 

“Like a smuggler, but a sexy one. Like Han Solo… No! Like a pirate! A sexy, fascinating, _irresistible_ pirate… Seeing a fair lady on the shore, tearing her away from her mundane, boring existence…”

“My life is not…” 

"Poor defenseless maiden, whisked off to a life of peril and adventure, in the arms of this dangerous, irresistible rascal..."

Somehow they have made it back – back home, to the square with the sycamores, to Hamid’s café – closed now, of course, chairs and parasols vanished for the night; they stop right where Elizabeth’s table should be, “Can I kiss you?” George whispers.

A pause. The universe is a pool of shadows. Elizabeth is so tense, she’s like a bomb.

Her voice catches. “You’re irresistible, I hear.”

George clearly hesitates – she feels the tension; like they’re on the verge of something – dangerous – deep – here be dragons – George’s lips brush hers, Elizabeth shivers involuntarily, they almost miss each other, he tries again and this time – this time – 

This time.

When they break the kiss – they – she…

“Hey, hello there,” Hamid says, prudently crossing the empty street – looking both ways before he steps on the road – Elizabeth steps away guiltily – the night is too dark for Hamid to have spotted their embrace, and even if he did, so what? She’s not doing anything wrong, it feels that way though – taboo, she thinks, half amused, half dizzy.

“You know we’re closed, right?” Hamid's smile, warm and somehow ironic.

“We do, Hamid,” Elizabeth answers. “It’s just, with the sycamores, you own the best part of the square, you know?”

“The place is _irresistible,”_ George chimes in, before discreetly taking Elizabeth’s hand in his. A short conversation, Hamid goes home, George kisses Elizabeth again, and it’s 

\- and then - 

They trade phone numbers, finally. George catches Elizabeth's wrist after she said goodnight, he draws her nearer, a last quick, tender kiss before she walks away at last.

**

And then everything turns to ash.

**

Darcy wakes up in the morning in his stifling hotel room. The heatwave will break soon, but brace for two more days of hell, they say. It sure feels like it. (Hell.) The air conditioning’s not working. Darcy tries to turn it on again, to no avail. Maybe the whole system was strained and gave up.

Nightmares, Darcy realizes, suddenly. All night. Not the heat, not the broken air conditioning, no, those are very real, but God – the dreams he had. Maybe because of the alcohol – rosé in the secret garden, white wine at dinner, champagne, yes, maybe he’s just nursing a hangover. But. Those are familiar nightmares. The notorious thick, guilty, sloughy dreams of his youth. It’s been a while, now they’re back. 

_(Disappointed everybody. Failed. Did not do his duty, to his family, to his father, to Pemberley. His duty was to succeed, to make them proud, to be someone important, instead Darcy slid into the swamp and drowned and staid stuck at the bottom.)_

God. It’s been ages. Why now?

When his father died and Darcy inherited Pemberley, nightmares haunted his nights, including a nice “you failed Georgiana she’s dead or worse and it is all your fault” subplot. Thank God for small victories because at least this part is totally gone; this choice morsel of culpability vanished the day Georgiana turned eighteen, a fine, well-adjusted human being. The rest of the dreams faded with the years, while Darcy was getting used to Pemberley’s arcane mysteries, each week more in control, more competent. They completely vanished the day he sold Pemberley and quit.

He was free, he thought. 

Turns out, he isn’t.

The early morning is stifling; Darcy can’t breathe. He puts on some casual clothes. He goes down to the lobby to get a cup of the good coffee. He says hello to the woman who’s setting the breakfast buffet. He says hello and smiles to the guy at the lobby – except – it’s ridiculous. Worthless. Why is Darcy doing this? Why would he care what a guy at the lobby in a crummy hotel thinks of him? Darcy goes back to his room, in front of the window, angling his chair just so he can see the tiny bit of view on the right of the wall.

Cars passing. People. Life. He sips his coffee.

It’s bitter. Stale. 

The heat is already oppressive. The view doesn’t mean anything.

He thinks about kissing Emma. How intense and meaningful it felt.

(A lie. A trap.)

He looks at the reminder on his calendar. Today at three.

**

The Matlock Foundation annual charity event, today at three.

It’s another world, one Darcy has almost forgotten. (His world. And Hamid’s café, the sycamores, the meandering streets of Emma’s neighborhood, the secret garden with broken concrete and wildflowers suddenly seem powerless, puerile, like a spell that lost its potency.) Yes, this is Darcy’s reality, the real one, buffet tables covered with white cloth, elegant waiters, lines of shining crystal glasses, food plentiful and expensive as a symbol of rank, (yes, rank, as outdated as the word seems to be), and, of course, the people.

This world is inhabited by very special creatures. 

\- Darcy’s uncle is there. The Earl of Matlock. (Yes, a real Earl! Yes, they still exist!)

\- Darcy’s cousin Alcott is here. The Earl of Matlock’s eldest son, Richard’s eldest brother. Richard is, sadly, not present.

\- And of course, the others, ghosts from Darcy’s very recent past, from Pemberley and from Pemberley’s rival firms and from his uncle’s circles of friends, investors, acquaintances, enemies. A tide of ghosts. A flow.

If only Richard had been there. Yes, Richard’s presence this afternoon would have changed everything. Because Richard hates this world, his father’s world, the world he comes from. Richard knows the danger, Richard knows this universe and its dark seduction. Richard would have been by Darcy’s side, sassing away invaders, his presence a reminder that this is not the truth, or at least that only _a_ truth.

But Richard is not here, and wizardry wins, and Darcy is sucked in.

“It’s like meeting your abusive ex-boyfriend too soon – when you’re not totally over him,” Elizabeth will tell Darcy, much later, when he tries to explain, in more details, what happened that day. (Yes, Elizabeth. Not Emma.) “The evil ex-boyfriend walks toward you,” Elizabeth will continue, “you see him coming and you should flee, but you’re hypnotized, and now it’s too late, he’s telling you why breaking up with him was a terrible mistake, how you’ve been failing at life since, how ridiculous and worthless all those things you hold dear really are, and wasn’t it much better when he was at your side to steer you right? And you don’t believe him – not really – not at first – but he keeps talking and doubt seeps in and your worldview begins to shift…”

“Wow,” Darcy will answer, worried. “I hope this does not stem from personal experience.”

Elizabeth will look at Darcy and smile (trust, affection, joy) before shaking her head. “No, nothing personal. Just… Four sisters. A bunch of female friends. Lydia had a really bad boyfriend, for a while. She was so young...”

But this is a conversation for much later, dear reader, we’re not there yet. Darcy is not there yet. He is still at the Matlock event, in this beautiful, luxuriously decorated space, and all the ghosts are talking to him.

“Hey, Darcy! Still on your ‘break’? But… You’re pretending, right? What genius new project are you really concocting?”

“Darcy! So great to see you! So, you’re in negotiations with a new firm? Keeping it a surprise? I can’t wait to see what you are really about…”

“Darcy, so you’re back! Indefatigable, like your father! I knew nothing could keep a Darcy down…”

“Darcy! So, I hear you were taking a sabbatical and there is, shall we say, a lady involved? Or maybe several?”

“Darcy, I have a woman for you. No, seriously, I have _the_ woman for you. Sophia Grey, do you know her? Ok, man, listen…”

This is Alcott, Darcy’s cousin, remember? Richard’s eldest brother – the two men cannot be more different. Alcott drags Darcy near a pillar, he explains all about Sophia. First a substantial description of the young woman’s physical assets, then the rest of the pedigree, see, Sophia is half Swedish, half American, she went to Harvard, you’ll never guess who she’s working for, and her father – you already know her father, Darcy, he’s that guy who – Alcott is still raving about “what a great couple you two would make” when they are joined by Darcy’s uncle, the Earl of Matlock in person, in a surprisingly good mood. 

Yep, surprising. Considering that when Darcy and his uncle last interacted, Darcy had just sold Pemberley. The Earl went crazy, yelled at Darcy for ages, or would have, except Darcy left, dramatically banging the door, and…scene. The yelling was, of course, about Darcy abandoning his inheritance and making the family look bad because of a childish tantrum, and what would Darcy’s father say, etc. Anyway. This afternoon the Earl is in a good mood because of the rumor spreading, maybe thanks to Alcott, that Darcy is taking a sabbatical because he is looking for a wife – yes, seriously, this story does take place in the 21st century. 

See, for the Earl, this puts a completely different light on the matter. His nephew did not have a “burnout” like an overworked proletarian chump, ha, no. Darcy did not walk away from his glorious responsibilities, he is just on pause, focusing on private matters, before coming back married and ready to start a new, shining business career. 

Dear reader, this is nonsense, of course. Such was never Darcy’s intention, a single man in possession of a good fortune is not always in want of a wife, but when Darcy hears his smiling uncle he freezes – they cannot know the truth, right? His uncle cannot know about Emma? Darcy rewinds all his recent conversations and no, thank God, Darcy only mentioned Emma to Georgiana, who is in Italy, and has cut ties with all the Matlock clan anyway.

And for a fleeting second there Darcy wishes he had done so too. Cut all ties. For a fleeting second he wishes he had not come here today, because he can feel it, his reality, shifting – and Emma – what the hell was he thinking? Emma wouldn’t fit here. Emma who has not gone to Harvard, Emma with her ratty purple backpack, Emma who works on a café table with an old laptop named Harriett, Emma who flunked law school – or quit – Emma and her tiny apartment, her shabby neighborhood, she – she’s great – but she isn’t – it doesn’t – Darcy’s family would be so disappointed – except – it doesn’t matter, right? Who cares about their opinion, that is what Georgiana would say, but it’s not about their opinion, Darcy thinks, it’s…

Emma wouldn’t fit. 

So now both the Earl and Alcott are recommending Sophia Grey, five stars on Yelp! The Earl pats affectionally Darcy’s shoulder, says he never doubted him, oh and if it doesn’t work with Julia, has Darcy heard of Emma Woodhouse? Darcy bristles because of the name “Emma,” it’s another Emma though, a rich and beautiful one, “the Woodhouses, they’re loaded”, Alcott confirms, with this laugh he has, a cynical-we’re-all-bros-here-but-in-an-ironical-intellectual-superior-way laugh that always put Darcy’s teeth on edge and suddenly Darcy is too hot, the air conditioning is working here but – he’s hot anyway – uncomfortable – after a short and polite conversation he leaves his uncle and cousin to go refresh his drink.

“Darcy! So there’s a new project, right? No need to keep us all in suspense…”

“Darcy! We all know what you’ve _really_ been doing…”

Darcy smiles politely, sometimes his answers sound clipped, he knows, but the situation feels unreal. The feeling of wrongness becomes so strong, he has to make an exit. It’s been three hours anyway, so Darcy’s again very polite about it, he asks Alcott to say goodbye to his uncle for him, he walks away, calls a Uber, he wants to go home, except he doesn’t have a home, just a stupid hotel with a window and no view.

Oh my God, what has he done?

_“Darcy! We all know what you’ve really been doing...”_

Nothing, that’s what he’s done. 

He stayed in his stupid, third rate hotel, gone to a crappy café with crappy service, read outdated novels. Only talking to Bingley and Jane – and Emma – and Emma, she – she dragged Darcy into her odd, sweet reality of make-believe, inside jokes, little, unimportant things, and it – it’s not him – not Darcy – he’s been seduced by the easiness of it, the simplicity, but – they’re right – why hasn’t he been concocting a new project? Why hasn’t he been creating a new firm? Why isn’t he right now having meetings with – people – important people – instead of hanging out in tiny Greek restaurants drinking awful coffee – and then his phone dings, and Darcy’s heart stutters, because despite all his musings, he still hopes for a text from Emma…

It’s not.

It’s a text from Palmer – one of his old friends, one of the ghosts Darcy just talked to at the event. Offering him a job.

Offering him a partnership, actually. See, the main associate of the firm had a heart attack, the guy is fine now, but retiring, they had vaguely someone in mind, but seeing Darcy at the party, Palmer says, it gave him an idea, they should discuss it, is Darcy free tomorrow?

** I am ** Darcy texts.

**

The hotel. The stifling room. Air-conditioning has not been fixed yet.

Another bad night. A very bad one. The nightmares are back, full force. In the morning, the heat is unbearable, Darcy can’t breathe. The last day, they say. Also, Darcy is very conscious that he has not texted Emma yet. It’s been more than twenty-four hours now, after their date; he’s not been to the café either. He pictures it all too well. Yesterday, Emma, arriving at Hamid’s, radiant after the evening they just had, looking for him – for George – maybe she waited for him all day, writing, of course, but still expecting his arrival, except George never showed up – and then, no call, no text, Emma’s phone, painstakingly silent. Of course she would think… 

Darcy could still save it. He could still text, right now. Make up a story. Or just tell the truth – the charity gala, unpleasant family conversations.

Instead, Darcy goes to the meeting. 

Palmer’s offices, white and metal. Darcy is welcomed into the executive conference room on the upper floor, a crazy view, they pull all the stops, you know, excellent coffee, thick financial documents, impressively high numbers, the partnership is exciting, or should be. Yes, it’s Darcy’s world, no, better: it’s his expertise, he gets back into the groove, he’s focused, on point, he mentions some directions Palmer could take, he proposes risky investments and some not that risky, Palmer is very excited, having “the Pemberley Darcy” would be so great for their image, time to leave, Darcy shakes hands and smiles, he says all the right things.

As soon as he is outside he realizes nope, he's not interested. The job would bring a Pemberley’s level of responsibilities without Pemberley’s advantages – his father’s legacy, Darcy’s innovations, the charms of the place itself, Ms Reynolds' invaluable assistance, employees Darcy had known his whole life. And Pemberley was not only a business: they helped a lot of people. So no. Darcy won’t work with Palmer. But – all this strategy talk has pulled him even more into his old reality.

The café, the books, the quirky neighborhood are fading away. 

He cannot wait anymore. Ghosting Emma, that’s not… It’s unfair. Rude. She deserves to know.

Darcy takes his phone and starts typing.

** Hello Emma. I apologize for not being in contact before. **

He hesitates. The words seem trite. Maybe they always are, in these circumstances. 

There are not a thousand ways to break up with someone after all. 

** Listen, thanks for a lovely evening. I had a really great time in your company. But… **

**

Darcy pukes. Yep, he’s actually sick for a while, in his tiny, impersonal, too white hotel bathroom. After breakfast, after sending Emma the text. Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the food, maybe it’s something he ate or drank at the gala yesterday. 

Or maybe it’s because… It’s over. Emma must have received his messages by now. She must have read them. The situation is not salvageable.

Maybe he made a mistake.

(Of course he didn’t make a mistake.)

But maybe…

(No.)

**

** Hey, free for dinner? I’m making curry! **

Bingley. When Darcy’s phone chimed, he thought maybe Emma just answered, and… And, what? The best he could hope for was a cold, but polite reply. 

Of course, it was not her. Hours passed and Emma did not text back. Darcy wouldn’t have, in her place.

He’s certainly never going back to Hamid’s café now.

** I’ll be there ** Darcy sends to Bingley.

**

Evening comes. It’s still so hot. Darcy buys a bottle a wine, and after some thought, flowers for Jane. It’s not because he...because he changed his mind about a few things that he should forget his resolution to be more pleasant, more thoughtful. Emma, the way she interacted with the staff, at the café – Darcy should take lessons. He will.

Darcy arrives at Netherfield (the building), he rides the elevator. Fifth floor. Bingley cheerfully opens the door. Jane accepts the flowers, all smiles, and grateful thanks, she ushers Darcy in the main room, someone’s already here, a woman, looking toward the window. “We have a last-minute guest,” Jane explains, radiant. “It’s been so long, I’m so glad you two can finally meet!” 

The young woman turns to him, while Jane happily concludes, 

“Darcy, this is my sister, Elizabeth.”

**

And just like that, the heatwave is over.

**

_(Not the end!)_


	9. Talk about awkward

“Darcy, this is my sister, Elizabeth.”

**

« So what happened next? » Charlotte asks.

Drinks on Elizabeth’s terrace. Both women are dressed warmly, a cold wind blows; down in the street, the plane trees’ leaves are already falling.

The heat vanished so fast, it’s not even funny.

“Then,” Elizabeth says, laughing despite the unpleasantness of the memory. “Then… God, was it awkward.”

“I bet.”

“The worse, I think, was Jane and Bingley looking at us hopefully, like…lightning was going to strike, like we were going to fall in love right here and there. Like I was going to take one look at Darcy and swoon, or, you know, the opposite. Cue, the most uncomfortable three seconds of my adult life.”

Charlotte chuckles. “I am sorry to say, your painful story is extremely amusing.”

“Then Jane felt our embarrassment and saved the day, asking about drinks, talking – I don’t remember, about the weather, I suppose; I came to my senses, I walked to Darcy, wearing my best patented polite smile, and said: ‘I am very glad to meet you’…”

**

“We already met,” Darcy answers.

Without thinking. Just blurting it. Without… Oh God. He’s so stupid. He’s just… He’s not used to lying.

Panic flickers in Elizabeth's eyes – or maybe exasperation, or a desperate form of amusement, who knows – she recovers quickly enough. “You’re right, we did, we talked… In the, in the café…” Elizabeth turns to Bingley, the smile still on her lips. “I was at Hamid’s, writing, you know? Just below your windows, actually. Darcy was reading at the next table.”

“Oh, so you already know each other,” Bingley comments, hesitating between disappointment and joy at the idea that two of his dear friends will soon become even better acquainted. 

“Just some small talk,” Darcy says. “We didn’t…realize who…” he hesitates, “who we really were.” 

“Almost as if we had secret identities or something,” Elizabeth adds, her smile more sincere, and Darcy feels it, how Bingley looks at Elizabeth, then at Darcy, still hoping for them to connect, still hoping for love at first sight, and, you know what? For a split second here, Darcy actually… 

Looking at Emma... at Elizabeth’s perfect countenance, at the light dancing in her eyes despite the dreadfulness of the situation, Darcy almost…

He almost…

He loses his train of thought when Jane comes back with glasses and the wine Darcy brought, which is perfect, because “vin de glace” is Bingley’s favorite, he’s very knowledgeable about the vinification method and the conversation takes a turn, Elizabeth encourages it, talking with fortitude about frozen grapes and high altitude, the glint of amusement in her eyes turning in a sort of stupefaction, then sadly Bingley pushes the topic aside to get back to a very unsubtle “Oh my God Lizzy, Darcy, I can’t believe you already talked, how statistically improbable, this cannot be random happenstance the universe really wants you to meet, wink wink, ha ha.”

Elizabeth turns crimson. Darcy is almost glad for it. Elizabeth Bennet is human after all, she gets flustered, she does not react to adversity with perfect Zen mastery. Also, Darcy can swoop in now, be the hero a little instead of being rescued in conversation by the girl he just broke up with, he smiles, raises his glass, and says very amiably, “the universe is really stubborn, and I, for one, am very glad to be here, among dear friends,” and it’s – not a very Darcy thing to say, but he wants to. He’s supposed to be getting better at this. Communication, amiability, respect. It would really be a dick move to let Emma, no, Elizabeth, flounder in this alone – and at Darcy’s own surprise, it works, everyone relaxes, Bingley gives him an impressed look, and Elizabeth – Elizabeth smiles, raises her eyes and her glass with a nod Darcy interprets as “message received, let’s be friends,” Jane seems happy, “Well, we have another reason to celebrate,” she chimes in, “because Charles had good news at work,” and thank God work is more efficient than vine, the conversation swerves for good this time, the atmosphere warm and friendly, everyone cares about Bingley, everyone is happy to know he got another promotion, “I received a lot of compliments about the way I encourage team bonding”, he explains, “his boss said that everyone likes him,” Jane intervenes, so proud, Elizabeth looks at her sister’s fiancé, smiling, “I’m not surprised,” she comments, with earnest conviction; Jane gives her sister such an affectionate look, Darcy feels a pinch, something hurts, he doesn’t know why, a feeling of loss, maybe he misses Georgiana.

**

“So, basically,” Charlotte concludes, “you handled this like a pro. You drowned the asshole into an ocean of Elizabeth Bennet’s awesomeness.”

“There were a few moments where… But mostly, yeah, I was awesome,” Elizabeth decides, sipping her drink, shivering a little despite her plaid of dark wool – a gift from Jane, when she and Bingley went to Scotland. “George… Darcy, he… He was ok too, considering. The rest of the dinner was fine.”

Charlotte shakes her head. “You are a better person than I am. I would have roasted that creep alive. I mean, you can, Eliza, I’ve seen you do it, you know, destroy somebody thoroughly with a few chosen sentences.”

“I should not be proud of it,” Elizabeth protests, a little embarrassed. “Must have been before my ‘I shall behave more like Jane’ realization. I have no reason to be mad at Darcy though. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Oh come on.”

“He – we went on a date, and after some thought, he decided he was not interested. He sent me a very polite message about it.” 

“A text. He broke up by text.”

“Yes, thank God. Who wants to be there in the flesh when someone dumps you?” Elizabeth takes a deep breath. “Nothing’s wrong with him. People are allowed not to date me.”

“Well, his loss.”

“Definitely.”

And there is something, in the way Elizabeth averts her eyes, in the way she gazes at the hints of autumn blowing down in the street, that alerts Charlotte’s wary friendship.

**

Curry’s great. To Darcy’s surprise, the conversation is…ok, really. Bingley is in an excellent mood, Jane is as ever polite and sweet, Elizabeth is maybe a little silent at first, but still smiling, participating here and there with some witty remarks. So strange – it’s as if the George/Emma adventure never happened, as if Elizabeth was actually not Emma, but someone else, and she is, in a way. Elizabeth’s remarks are sharper, she holds herself straighter, she’s dressed differently too, a nice black dress, discreet earrings – the result is so different, so unlike Emma’s relaxed look of fatigued jeans and loose hair and simple green tops – Emma’s ready laugh, Emma’s skin, kissed by the sun – but maybe it was just the heat, a vision, a parenthesis of uncharacteristic behavior.

Darcy gets it. He’s not George either, not here. In Netherfield, he is Bingley’s solemn friend, imbued with all the gravitas of Fitzwilliam Darcy’s life’s history. Then Jane asks Elizabeth about “that deal she wanted to get, or was it a new client, Lizzy, at Collins & Collins, I think?” The name of the firm feels vaguely familiar to Darcy, he is not sure why, anyway Elizabeth speaks of her new mission, her enthusiasm real but subdued, her eyes are shining with joy and strength, but not like Emma either, Emma was more open, laughter and delight obvious. This is another facet of Elizabeth, light and energy palpable, but kept under a glittering surface of reasonable, smooth behavior; Darcy is so fascinated, studying every nuance, that he is taken by surprise when Bingley asks him about the Matlock charity gala; after a few non-committal answers, the conversation turns to Pemberley, Jane asking Darcy if he misses those days.

He ponders his answer. It’s a complicated one. 

“I miss being part of something important,” he finally explains. Elizabeth is listening intently, Darcy knows. “Parts of Pemberley's missions I sincerely believed in. It was… It was too much too early, it devoured my life, so quitting was the right decision,” he adds after some thought, “but yes, sometimes I do miss it.”

“A lot of paperwork and hassle… plenty of responsibilities, but good results,” Bingley says.

“Kind of like managing a hospital,” Elizabeth comments, innocently eating curry.

“Indeed,” is Darcy’s answer. “Excellent comparison.”

“I thought so.”

“Someone very smart must have thought of it.” Darcy regrets it instantly - what is he doing, bantering with the woman he…with a woman he should not be bantering with? But Elizabeth seems amused.

“So, _Elizabeth,_ ” Darcy asks, with a little emphasis on the name, “what are you doing? You write, clearly, but…” 

She smiles. “I am a freelancer. Specializing in communication for non-profits.”

“I thought you were supposed to be a doctor?” he asks, remembering gossip from the party. 

“I did attend medical school – for five whole, interminable, rather unpleasant years,” Elizabeth answers, she smiles again, because Darcy doesn’t need her to fill the rest, he knows. 

“Ah.” He grins. “Medical procedures. Complex, redundant, often boring. A lot of unrelated, dry facts to memorize. Kind of like… Let me find a proper comparison….”

“Were you going to say law school?” Elizabeth asks, her face full of the same beautiful innocence, and Darcy laughs.

“Yes! Now that I think of it…”

“Elizabeth quit medical school,” Jane explains, and you can feel in her voice how proud she is of her sister’s choices, as unconventional as they are, “despite family’s pressure…”

“You did not pressure me, Janey.”

“And then she…”

**

“How very civilized of you all,” Charlotte groans. “Also, boring. Where is the drama? Tell me that’s the moment you ‘involuntarily’ poured hot, burning curry onto Darcy’s lap. And when I say his lap, I really mean his…”

“Sadly, the curry was entirely gone by then.’

“Red wine on his shirt? To mark him with the indelible stain of treachery?”

“We drank white wine only.”

“I am disappointed, I have to say.” 

Elizabeth stays uncharacteristically silent, her gaze absent, and Charlotte is worried again, till Elizabeth comes back to herself with a gesture rather too light, her expression too unconcerned. “Then I said I had to prepare for a conference call in the morning, I was charming and fun and relaxed, said goodbye to everyone, then left, and yep, as you say, very civilized, the whole deal.”

“Really was,” Charlotte says, on high alert now. She sneakily pours more Martini in Elizabeth's glass, then waits till her friend has absently sipped it, and fills Elizabeth’s glass again.

Silence. 

Elizabeth speaks at last. “If you want a man to regret his decision, it's never a good idea to be obnoxious and dramatic, right?”

Ah. There it is. “So, you want him to regret you?” Charlotte asks, casually.

“Well.” Elizabeth smiles. “I am only human. Of course, I want him to regret his decision. I don’t want him back, clearly, we do not fit, but of course, I want him to fall on his knees weeping in his stupid hotel room, tearing his hair out, wailing, ‘Oh Gods, oh fates, what a terrible mistake I made! Never shall I find such a magnificent woman again!’ Or, you know, a Shakespearian reaction of some sort.”

Charlotte nods. “On a scale of one to ten, how much were you hurt? When he, ended things?”

Elizabeth drinks more martini. “I’m never hurt. You know me. Tough as nails. Unflappable.”

“Right.”

“Puny feelings do not wound me.”

“Sure.”

“Romance? Who needs it! Love is for the weak.”

“No contradiction here.”

“It’s just…”

“Mmm?”

Elizabeth hesitates. “It makes it better, really? Now that I know George is really Fitzwilliam Darcy, rich and famous, fancy schools, connected to the Matlock family and all.”

“Why?”

“Because, it’s… I mean,” she says, averting her gaze, and to Charlotte’s horror Elizabeth seems deadly serious, “of course I would not be worthy of him.”

**

After curry, Elizabeth explains she cannot stay, she’s all smiles and cheerfulness, she doesn’t rush her departure, and obviously, Darcy understands that she’s fleeing the scene. Her situation must be at least a little uncomfortable, her gaiety must be posturing, right? But it’s so well done, Elizabeth is such a good actress, her conversation seems so fluid, that Darcy can’t help feeling his interpretation is wrong, that she is sincerely, perfectly at ease, and then Elizabeth laughs and hugs Jane and another joke and she’s gone, and – 

Everything just feels bland after that.

**

“NO. Oh NO. No no no no.” Charlotte speaks with cold rage. “You think you are not worthy of a man because he’s rich? Elizabeth Bennet, ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”

Thank God hearing her idiotic thought thrown back at her jostles Elizabeth a little. “No! I mean – I didn’t mean – of course, I am worthy, but Darcy, he doesn’t know that. Ok, Charlotte, I- I was wondering what happened between Emma and George. For him to - to put an end to it. It was going really well, or so I thought, and then," Elizabeth's voice cracks a little, "so yes, I was asking myself – and now, I know. It is a relief, really.”

Charlotte points to Elizabeth’s martini glass. “Drink.” 

Elizabeth obeys. “Now, listen,” Charlotte orders. “The worthiness thing, it’s actually the opposite. If Darcy is rich and powerful, he’s supposed to be clever, right? No, no, do not list the numerous counterexamples... I worked for his aunt for a while, Darcy is smart, they say. And he didn’t realize who he had caught in his net?”

“In his net?”

“You! He caught you!”

“Such an extremely bizarre metaphor.”

“He caught Elizabeth Bennet by mistake and didn’t realize her value? Fuck him! _He’s_ not worthy.”

“I– my value? I am a struggling writer who can hardly make rent. I quit school. My family is nuts. My apartment is… Well, you’re in it…”

“Since when does this constitute value?”

“Charlotte…”

“You know I wanted to replace you, as a friend.”

Elizabeth is shocked into silence. Good. Charlotte continues. “I thought, I am leaving town, leaving Elizabeth behind, she disapproves of my choices,” Charlotte explains, with a half-smile, fortunately Elizabeth and Charlotte’s disagreement about William Collins is long past, they are thoroughly reconciled now. “So at the time I thought, ok, our friendship is over,” Charlotte adds, “and I decided, who cares! Friends? A dime a dozen! Elizabeth? I will replace her easily.”

“You sure know how to comfort someone.”

“Except, I couldn’t. Sure, I made new acquaintances. But turns out, people who are funny, clever and kind – strike that, people who are very funny, clever and kind, who do not freak out easily, who see how the world really is…but still do not become cynical, and retain a healthy capacity for affection… Well. Turns out, at my own surprise, those people are _extremely_ rare. If Darcy doesn’t realize that…”

Charlotte’s voice trails away. Elizabeth is unable to speak for a minute, so Charlotte starts again.

“Remember this assignment, where you only got an A, but Mr. Crimsworth read your conclusion aloud to the whole class? I was so very jealous.”

“ _Social classes are very real,_ ” Elizabeth quotes from that stupid thing she wrote when she was seventeen. She wanted to prove to the world she was so edgy and clever, and was offended when she didn’t get the A+ she coveted. “ _But they’re also an illusion, a magic trick: like ghosts, they disappear the day you stop believing in them._ ”

Charlotte smiles. “Yep. That.”

“I think I stole it from my dad. Not the whole phrasing, but the general idea.”

“I always liked your father. But, ok, see how this is relevant here?”

“I do. I see your point. And, also, Charlotte?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Silence follows, comfortable, the night has set, it’s getting really cold but neither of them wants to move, so they order Thai food, after an excellent meal Elizabeth is feeling so much better, also the Martini has kicked in, and so she begins to list to Charlotte all the ways she will get over George/Darcy, which includes dancing in the street, drunk-dialing all her exes, telling Henry (Tilney) that that crush he had on Elizabeth years ago, before they started to work together and Henry met Catherine, well, it is time to do something about it, “I will tell him, Henry dear, dump your fiancée, burn all your clothes…”

“Why should he burn all his clothes?”

“So he could show up naked on my doorstep.”

“Aren’t he and Catherine married now?”

“I will tell him, Henry dear, dump your _wife,_ burn all your clothes, let’s have a hot, passionate, adulterous affair…”

“Sounds like reasonable and healthy rebounding behavior.”

“Seriously,” Elizabeth starts, after a pause, “I’m going to take a break from men. The funny thing is, I was telling George, during our date, that he… that any attempt at romance had the potential to be dangerous. Painful. I was right, so… Signing off now. No flirting, no love, nothing. For a while. Guarding my heart from now on.”

Charlotte stretches. 

“I feel like I’m supposed to protest and tell you that you should give love a chance, that the right man is just around the corner, but nope… I say, good thinking. I wholeheartedly support your decision.”

**

Darcy doesn’t linger after dessert. 

He says goodbye. He leaves. He walks across the esplanade, the sycamores shivering in the shadows. He walks to his hotel. Another elevator. 

His room. 

Shower, etc.

He lies on his bed. He stares at the ceiling.

He is not regretting his decision, obviously. He broke up with Emma for very valid reasons. He was right. Totally right. He isn’t regretting anything, oh no. He did not make a horrible mistake.

He tries to sleep. He cannot. Somewhere Emma laughs, or Elizabeth. She’s looking at him, eyes shining. 

Bingley’s loft, so empty, when she was gone.

Darcy sits up and tries to read, it doesn’t take. Finally, he gets up, paces the dark, impersonal bedroom, he sits down on the bed again. 

He doesn’t fall on his knees weeping, he doesn’t tear his hair out and wails.

But he drops his head in his hands.

Well.

_Fuck._


End file.
